Truth in the Eyes of an Enemy
by evyfleur
Summary: Draco returns to Hogwarts for his seventh year having undergone some dark changes. Bitter memories of the summer are brought back vividly when he sees Ginny Weasley, the last person he'd expect to have an influence on him. But when painful decisions lie a
1. Forbidden Memories

**Truth in the Eyes of an Enemy**

**Author's Note: **This is a rather daring foray into a section of fanfiction I've never touched before, so I'd appreciate any feedback you have about this chapter. If it's horrible you can just tell me to jump in a lake. I will at least find a pond. Thank you!

**Disclaimer: **I'm not trying to make any money, I just find fanfiction fun to write. I am aware that Harry Potter, especially Draco Malfoy, belongs to J.K. Rowling, yay! However, I'd like to inform the WB to get out of here before I take the safety off my rifle. Enjoy!

**_Chapter 1: Forbidden Memories_**

            Draco scowled deeply as he sat in a lonely compartment of the train that was swiftly making its way to Hogwarts School. This would be his seventh and final year there, fortunately. Unfortunately, most of his family's friends (whom he had been allowed to associate with) had been transferred to Durmstrang and other schools, where they could gain a true magical education. None of this fluff that Dumbledore thought was necessary. Their curriculum included the Dark Arts, a substantial and intriguing topic, in Draco's opinion. His face became even more etched with futile frustrations about his father's decision. Why Lucius needed Draco to remain at Hogwarts was beyond him, but he couldn't go against his father. Not on his life, and especially since he didn't have anyone to protect him as he had in the past. That summer had been extraordinarily difficult without…but Draco stopped himself and put his thoughts away. So there he was, trapped, stuck on an island in the middle of a swarming colony of mudbloods and muggle lovers.

            The compartment door slid open abruptly and someone asked, "Do you mind if we sit here?" It was a bossy, high-pitched voice which Draco recognized immediately, along with two of the other three voices. He was incredibly grateful that he had his hood up, and pulled it over his face more effectively.

            "Go ahead," he muttered in a non-descript manner.

            Of the four voices now chatting away to each other quite eagerly, the three Draco recognized belonged to his arch nemeses: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger. Oh, how perfect. It was certainly appropriate to worsen Draco's bad day already by throwing in the monkey wrench, that is, he and the Dream Team, the people he hated most (apart from his father) in the same compartment for hours on end. Well, perhaps it was mostly Potter that caused his distress, more so than the Weasel or Bucktooth Granger. Because of some inexplicable turn of fate, it was Potter that was always getting the credit for escaping the wrath of the Dark Lord. Ha! Potter didn't know a fraction of the amount Draco did about dealing with Him. Other that that minor detail, Draco thought sarcastically, it was always Harry Potter Saves the Day! Harry Potter Can Deal With the Deaths of his Parents! Oh, and a multitude of other events that were either totally out of his control and/or purely coincidental. Draco had tried and tried, attempt after attempt of hurting Potter in all the deep, dark ways, or as "dark" as he could get for a student. He had tried cheating him out of the undeserved fame he had. But it didn't work…it never worked and that made Draco sick of "cheating." He just wanted to be above Potter, find a way above him for once. 

            Ron Weasley he only hated for being extremely short-tempered, violent, and, of course, a muggle lover. Probably wouldn't be long now before he could call him that literally. When it got past that, Draco knew that Weasley was very much like himself. They were both from ancient, pureblood wizarding families, they both received significantly above average marks in class…but not high enough to get recognized for them. Weasley was a harmless creature like Draco thought himself to be, and he even felt a bit of pity for the youngest male Weasley because of the constant shadow Saint Potter cast on him in his radiant light. Though he was struggling to get out of that shadow: prefect, keeper on the Gryffindor team; maybe he would make something out of himself after all. 

            Granger, also, was overwhelmed by Potter's fame. Not by much, however; she had her beliefs, intellect, bushy hair and violent streak that Draco had experienced first _hand. Even so he respected and sometimes had to admit (when he wasn't feeling stubborn and childish) he admired her. But her history was the line Draco drew in not associating with her. She was a mudblood; he was a pureblood. She also happened to be Head Girl, not a surprise. He was barely a prefect and had lost most of the special privileges he'd had two years before with Umbridge. In any case, he was low and incomparable to the mighty Granger. _

            So that only left one person in the compartment to reflect on, other than himself (he'd exhausted those sources all morning), whom he hadn't dared to look on for fear of being recognized and then trampled, cursed, or mocked to death. He snuck a quick lance up at the person across from him. Ah, yes, it was the little Weasley girl. He seemed to have caught her staring back at him, and her curious brown eyes locked with his shielding gray ones. They remained in a deadlock for several seconds, furtively looking at one another, until Weasley finally gave up and returned to reading a rather large book that was sitting heavily in her lap. Now she was an interesting specimen indeed. He'd never really thought of her as more that a silly little girl with a fame-based infatuation with "the boy who lived" and made herself invisible by shyness otherwise. But no longer was she a little girl. Weasley was sixteen and had certainly grown into herself, Draco decided. Fiery red hair ended just past her shoulders and hung in her face continually, but didn't seem to annoy her at all. Her skin was a fair ivory hue with delicate touches of freckles across its surface. Her eyes were slightly rounded and questioning and she bit her lip in concentration as she looked down at the book. Draco followed her gaze to her hand. She was writing something…no, not writing, she was drawing. There must have been a notebook tucked inside the thick volume, Draco surmised with a raised brow. Looking quite out of place on her worn, hand-me-down, formless black robes was pinned a bright silver prefect badge. Draco noticed with pleasure that she was not following in the footsteps of her older, overtly zealous (and to put it bluntly, pompous) brother Percy. It was tarnished a bit already from fingerprints, the blatant smudges on it suggested that she didn't care or worry about it much. 

            What fascinated him, though, was in addition to all of these features. There was a hint of darkness about her, present in her eyes; her posture; her movements. A darkness she seemed to be hiding with great force and moderate success. Good.

            Draco would be in need of some entertainment that year, considering the absence of his friends, and she seemed to have a perfectly complimentary balance to him. All she needed was a few good fights, some well-placed (and forbidden) affection, and he might have her as a girlfriend. Now that would be amusing, he thought, mulling over the Weasel's anger, mudblood Granger's attempts to ignore them, and Potter's shock. Yes, he decided, giving a silent laugh at the speculation of such a situation. He wanted to screw with their minds…and hers especially.  

            Along with the dangers it produced, the thought of having the Weasley girl gave him adrenaline; she was uncharted territory, and that pulled at him. He'd been out with many girls before, but never one quite so…well, he had no words better than "mysterious" that came to mind, and surely the shy, modest, chaste Ginny Weasley could never be described that way. He thought indulgently for a moment before pulling back with self-control about what might be behind those enigmatic brown eyes. He smirked, knowing he would really have to challenge himself to do this. To make Weasley fall in love with him truly would be incomparably difficult to anything he'd ever done before. But he wouldn't cheat and whip up a love potion; that would be pointless. And anyway, he would probably be caught by McGonagall in the process, who would then (with greatest pleasure, he was certain, after what happened two years ago) send a letter to his father, who would, in turn, torture Draco more relentlessly than ever before. No, it was more entertaining to do it the hard way and really deceive her. 

            Once he thought about it, she and Draco were complete opposites. He was still staring at her furtively. They, as pureblood wizards, come from separate ends of the spectrum, both radical in their views and opinions. The most obvious difference, of course, was the fact that his family, the Malfoys, supported the Dark Lord (his left arm tingled as he thought of the night when Dolohov burned the mark into his arm- the youngest Death Eater) but Weasley and her whole family was intensely loyal to her headmaster, Professor Dumbledore. She glided along with Potter and the rest of his "noble" group, her brother and Granger. Draco moved alone, even if others like Crabbe and Goyle assisted by making him look more powerful that he was. Weasley had half a dozen siblings and two parents who loved her dearly; Draco had no siblings, a father who cared only for power, and until lately, a mother who (when she was not in the rare mood of liking him) cared only for riches. Beside family and political differences, perhaps some books could be read by their covers: Draco and Weasley looked as different as they were inside. She had long red hair, flowing freely, sanguine brown eyes and a beautiful, healthy complexion. He had slicked-back platinum blonde hair, like his father's, cold slate eyes, and pale, peaky skin with no apparent color in it at all. She was life, he was lifeless. Fire and ice were how close they could be…fire and ice.    

            What would he want to do by accomplishing this anyway? Perhaps he would lure her into a relationship with him and then kill her for the pleasure of the Dark Lord, or (if he was feeling merciful) leave her without any explanation whatsoever. However, it didn't matter at the moment, he had to start in order to finish, which meant he had to gain her love. Suddenly he was aware that his staring had brought the girl's eyes back to his. An odd flash passed his eyes. 

            It was the night before, and Draco was lying on the floor of his father's study, his lip bleeding and his mind spinning with such force and pain that he couldn't move. Lucius had just been there; he had been taunting and cursing him, telling him he was rebellious, unworthy of his privileges, and only a near-worthless tool for the Dark Lord. Draco could feel the ancient, stiff wooden floor under him. He couldn't stop thinking of what his father had said, before he left, peering down at his son in disgust and daring him to get to his room alone. He didn't care if he got pneumonia, it wasn't worth the pain Lucius wanted him to feel to crawl, full of shame, across the vast hallways of the manor, climb up the stairs like a sick hound, and pull himself into bed right as he would have to get up. It didn't matter. Either way, it wouldn't depend on what he did, but how his father felt that determined the way he was treated. Draco contemplated his life as such, whether it would be better to live in a freezing, agonizing world or to die in a bright flame that danced merrily across the room from him, gleaming at him ironically, as it provided no heat in the frigid chamber.

            Draco tore his gaze from Weasley with a feeling of horror, of exposure, and tried to catch his breath without being noticed by the others in his compartment. She immediately turned away also, an expression of deep embarrassment, shock, and utter folly evident on her face. Had she just watched his memory? Had she seen into his mind and read the emotions he had felt? Of course not, Draco reasoned with himself. Even the wisest and most powerful wizards had to learn Legilimency for many years before being allowed to register and use it only during emergencies. And even then, there was a spell necessary to initialize the process. He gathered his cloak around him to disguise the fact that a faint flush had come subtly to his unhealthy cheeks. "Let no one see your weaknesses," Lucius told him once, "and you, with so many! Hiding them will be a necessary skill.

            I have no weaknesses, Draco told himself. Weasley wasn't reading his mind. She wasn't, and even if she said that she was, he could easily deny it…and who wouldn't believe him? No one saw the memory apart from him and Weasley. No! Weasley hadn't seen a thing. It was just his imagination. With all that had passed, Draco's mind was working overtime, it seemed; he was too paranoid. Trying to push away the thoughts of memories he had not wanted, he desperately tried to contemplate the first step he would need to take in order to get Weasley. His mind told him that if he became friends with her friends, they'd end up closer by default, but his heart not only told him it would be like committing suicide to try to snag the trio as friends but that it probably would not be enough to catch her romantic interest. The dream team would immediately blow him off, thinking he was planning to pull a dirty trick on them. And let's face it, he thought, they would be absolutely right. He had to find a way to cover his tracks in the whole matter so that no one would be able to accuse him of malicious sentiments but himself. What was Potter notoriously famous for, among his teachers and friends?

Honesty.

Well, that might work well. False honesty, anyway. Lies of integrity, whatever one wanted to call it. He wouldn't _try_ to make friends. He would simply make them by opening himself up to the group with objective viewpoints and conversations, and (if his temper allowed him to refrain) without any malevolent glares. Neither would he act sickeningly sweet. Then they'd send him to St. Mungo's and with good reason. Draco would have to be insane to give up his dignity in that manner. 

The food trolley appeared in front of their compartment and the witch pushing it said in her usual manner, "Anything off the trolley, dears?" She smiled toothily and gestured to the piles of delicious snacks just waiting to be purchased. 

Now was his chance. He had plenty of sweets already, of course, but Draco figured he might as well start being "honest" as soon as possible. Both Weasleys mumbled their polite rejections of the witch's offer, displaying some rather crushed-looking homemade sandwiches to eat, while Potter sullenly bought a few chocolate frogs and Granger got some fizzing whizbees to share with the rest of them, knowing they were Ron's favorite. Draco lifted his head and let his cloak fall back. The only person not completely stunned by this action was the trolley witch, still counting out Granger's change. When she'd finished and handed Granger her change, she looked up at Draco with a slight frown. He hadn't always been the nicest to her.

"Er, yes, could I have two Cauldron Cakes? Please," he added hastily, taking a galleon from his pocket and holding it out for her. She, too, now appeared greatly surprised, not by his identity, but by his disposition.

"Of, of-of course, Mr.Malfoy, s-sir, here you are, and your change."

"Keep it," he said shortly. She made a strange noise in her throat, gave him the cakes, closed the compartment door, and scuttled off in a nervous panic. Draco fought hard not to smile. Perhaps he'd been a bit more rough that he ought to have been in the previous six years…oh, well. With a look around, Draco finally noticed everyone's individual reactions. Granger's eyes were wide and she was looking around as if trying not to stare, following her usual technique: ignore it and it will go away. Potter was blatantly glaring at him, daring him to make a move. Ron had suddenly become quite interested in his wizard chess set and was opening and closing his mouth in an attempt to focus. It seemed he had taken on a bit of Granger's philosophy. Little Weasley was sitting and reading, trying to look inconspicuous to everyone in the compartment. Draco quietly started to eat his Cauldron Cakes, glad to have something for his temperamental stomach.

"Ron," Granger began about five minutes later, "I just remembered, we need to check on the hallway to make sure everyone is behaving…and there's something in the prefect car, too. Erm, it's for seventh years Ginny, you can stay here if you like." She was speaking in a strangely more high pitched voice than she'd been using before. With a heave, she hoisted the Weasel up from his seat and dragged him out of the compartment, though he did not look unwilling. He was rather enjoying her apparent abuse.

Potter looked almost too grim to be bothered if it wasn't for the shock Draco had presented by revealing himself after he'd been in the compartment for quite some time. However, he was now wearing an expression of wariness and hastily told Weasley that he had promised Loony Lovegood a conversation before reaching the castle. Draco could see how easily she verified both the reasons they gave her as contrived excuses but how patiently she remained in her seat across from him. She'd taken up her drawing again.     

"Weasley," he said finally, after a few moments of silence.

"Yes?" she responded, trying to look calm, cool, and collected. Draco could tell she was alarmed by him.

"What is that you're working on?"

"A homework assignment," she said rather defensively, holding up her book so that he could see it.

"Oh, I see," Draco fought his smirk, "is it a drawing for Care of Magical Creatures or for Astronomy?" Weasley remained silent but closed her book with a look of regret and placed it inside her bag. Draco was still repressing his smirk.

"You know," he said, changing the subject, "it really is amazing how quickly your friends bolted out of this compartment once they knew I was sitting here. Do I really have a reputation that abysmal?" She gave him an indifferent shrug, but Draco wouldn't let her get away with that. He stared at her intensely as if to break down her defenses. She was staring determinedly down into her lap.

"Yes, you do," she finally responded, compulsively biting her lip. Moving her gaze upward cautiously, she looked at Draco wonderingly, and their eyes caught once again. But nothing happened this time. The chestnut orbs were veiled, though, it seemed, even if her statement about him had been completely…honest.

Draco set his face in his hands; a headache slowly forming. He knew she was right, but didn't want to admit it. Wait! That was the first step: honesty. He would tell her so that she could trust him. 

"Yeah, I know," he gave a muffled, sardonic laugh and shook his head. "Perhaps I'll make better of that this year." 

As though signaled by the words leaving his lips, the train came to a rough stop in Hogsmeade station. They both stood up immediately, Draco to get his eagle owl, Weasley to get her cat. It was a sleek black one, with dark green eyes and a haunting purr.

"Come here, Sirius," she called to him melodiously. The cat gave an ethereal mew of happiness and leaped into Weasley's arms. 

"Oh no, my brother's gone and left Pig in here again," she sighed, trying to manage her cat (who was quite unhappy and being violent considering the circumstances) and a hyperactive, tiny owl in a cage both at one time. Sirius was scratching at her arm and Pig was running into the door of the cage, trying to get it to open. Though Draco was greatly amused by her courageous efforts, he knew that plans called for his aid in her burden. 

"Here, let me take that owl for you-"

"Oh no, I can handle-"

"Really, I must insist-"

"No! Thank you! Oww!"

"See? Here-" and he grabbed the birdcage from her before she could say anything. She was still yelping in pain from a bite the cat gave her. She glared at Draco as if it was his fault and departed from the train, leaving him there with a violently twittering Pig. 

As he left the train and followed Weasley briskly across the platform to the horseless carriages, there was a light drizzle falling, along with a cold fog passing through, and Draco couldn't wait any longer to get in a carriage where the elves had warmed the seats. But as the carriages came into view, Draco sped up, passing Weasley and forcing her to hurry after him. Yes, he was right they were…he stopped in his tracks, mouth hanging slightly open at the sight of them. Weasley stopped right next to him, doing the same thing.

"Do you, d-do you s-see?"

"Yes," she answered him promptly. "The thestrals, I can see them too. They're not the most beautiful creatures, are they?" She regained herself quickly and Draco soon found that he was following her, wondering where he'd heard of "thestrals" before. They both climbed into one of the carriages pulling clumps of students off to the castle. The thestrals immediately took off, away from the train station with a swift trot. Pig's cage sat next to Draco in the carriage and to his great disturbance, the tiny owl kept on ruffling up his feathers, giving a pathetic "hoot!" and hurling himself against the bars of the cage towards Draco. 

            "Excuse me," he asked Weasley in an accidentally rude voice, "but may I ask what this mentally unstable owl is doing?"

            "Attacking you," Weasley responded matter-of-factly. "I think Ron trained him to hate all arrogant, self-righteous purebloods who just can't descend to anyone else's level. I'd watch my eyeballs if I were you," she added evenly.

            Draco had a sudden urge to kill her right therefore saying such a thing about him, but without a word, he forced himself to give a humiliating bow of his head in sarcastic acknowledgement of her advice. This plan was going to be thornier than he thought.

            "I will keep that in mind." 

*~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~*~~~~~~*

When the carriage stopped in front of the castle doors, Draco got out as gracefully as he could while carrying two owls' cages, and held the door open for Weasley. She stepped out looking suspicious of him and holding her cat Sirius very tightly. She stood in front of him wearing a slight frown and looking as if she was about to say something, but Draco cut her off hastily, worried about the memory he'd seen on the train. 

"I will let you take your brother's owl from here, and…" he cleared his throat nervously, trying to think of something to say. "And I suppose I will see you around Hogwarts, Weasley." 

He knew it sounded incredibly stupid, but that was no reason for her to suddenly appear terrified. A finger poked him on the shoulder rather hard, and he turned around with a superior unhappy look on his face to look up to the infamous Weasel himself. Unfortunately, the "Weasel" was at least a foot taller than him. 

"I'll take the owl, Malfoy." He said Draco's surname with the utmost loathing in his voice. Feeling threatened, Draco immediately gave him the bird and stormed off, raising an eyebrow at little Weasley as passed her.

The Great Hall was decorated for the beginning-of-term feast as usual, but Draco did not feel at all excited about the occasion. In fact, the thought quite depressed him. Taking his seat at the empty end of the green and silver Slytherin table, away from the ruckus, he surveyed the staff in curiosity. There were two new teachers this year, it appeared. Oh no, one of them was a return teacher. Draco sank down into his seat a little, recognizing Mad-Eye Moody's electric blue eye swiveling crazily around the room, as though "constant vigilance" had a strictly literal meaning to him. He took a generous swig from his hip flask with a grinding movement in his primitive jaw. Draco sat up again, fairly certain the man wouldn't attack him before the feast started. The other new teacher sat right next to him; she had short, spiky, pink and silver hair and appeared absolutely spiffed to be there. She wore a huge grin and kept knocking things over on the table in her excitement, a fact that Professor Dumbledore seemed slightly amused at. Moody caught a pitcher that was just about to spill as she accidentally elbowed it in order to shake hands with Professor Snape, who gave her an annoyed look but remained polite and then moved down the table to his own seat. 

Suddenly, the doors of the Great Hall flew open and a line of nervous first-years with wide eyes filed in, led by Professor McGonagall, who was looking as stern and uptight as usual. She ceremoniously took out the list of students and started calling out each name alphabetically. Draco couldn't help noticing that no Slytherins had yet been sorted and they were already into the Qs. Bentley Quenton became a Hufflepuff, Sarah Ritsch became a Gryffindor, and Amelia Sampson became a Ravenclaw. And so it went, until finally, to Draco's relief, a rather short and stocky boy went up and placed the Sorting Hat on his head. A full ten minutes passed, and people started whispering to each other about what it could mean, when, to everyone's astonishment, Samuel Thorne became a Slytherin. More muttering broke out everywhere. What was so important about this boy? He walked shakily over to the table clad in green and silver and sat next to Draco, smiling slightly. After the rest of the first years had been sorted (without any more Slytherins), Dumbledore stood up to say a short "Tuck In!" and the plates filled with delectable food that Draco had no appetite for. Instead, he turned to the boy next to him, who was starting to help himself to some mashed potatoes with butter and roast beef. He looked back at Draco and grinned. That kind of grin did not belong in Slytherin. It was genuine, joyful, energetic, and honest. He held out a rather large hand for Draco to shake and introduced himself.

"I'm Samuel Thorne, but you can call me Goose, Everyone calls me Goose. What's your name?"

Draco couldn't find words to say. He merely opened and closed his mouth and finally shook Goose's hand, thoroughly startled. Perhaps this boy could be in Hufflepuff, Gryffindor even, but…Slytherin? 

"Erm, Malfoy. My name is Draco Malfoy. Why are you in Slytherin?" he blurted out, all thoughts and connections tumbling out in one breath, one odd question. Goose didn't seem phased at all by this, and laughed good-naturedly, taking a gulp of pumpkin juice. 

"I have no idea! I must be right, though, huh? He was talking to me for a while, asked me if I wanted to do something worthwhile in my life…told me I was intelligent. I'm pretty much a scaredy cat, though, when it comes to weird creatures and changing things around too much. So he just talked to himself for a while, seemed pretty happy about something, and shouted out Slytherin. That's all," he said, taking a big bite of beef loaded with gravy.

That answer was much too strange for Draco's taste. Dumbledore must have somehow rigged the Sorting Hat to take all students away from Slytherin except one who could potentially corrupt the pure and ambitious mentality of Salazar's dear house. He thought on this for quite a while, giving shallow responses to Goose's rambling and accepting the glares of people further down the table with a passive annoyance. Goose continued to tell Draco about his life, his fierce goals for a career, and other bits of nonsense completely unrelated to any topics they were discussing. He was a gregarious and clever-witted chap, which was a staggering change for Draco to make in friendships. The difference in age made hardly any barriers to their acquaintance; Draco could influence all of his own views on Goose, passing them on through the school for a future seven years. He was even permissible through blood laws in the Malfoy family. The boy was a pureblood from Oxfordshire. Perhaps he would be a bit more of a help than a hindrance, if Draco could get to him before he got to Draco. Feeling hungry suddenly, Draco helped himself to some potatoes and other dishes, and took a sip of his pumpkin juice, keeping up the stable, civil, and frankly refreshing conversation between him and Goose.

After the feast ended and all the plates were taken away, Dumbledore stood up to give the usual warnings, additions to Filch's rules, introductions of the new teachers, and Dark Lord bravery and help propaganda. Then, with a splendid sweep of his old but strong arms, the headmaster gestured towards the doors and released them from the Great Hall to go to their dorms and get some rest for the next day. Draco remembered he had prefect duties to tend to, and, seeing that no other Slytherin was going to do it, he'd have to take the first years to the common room. But there weren't any first years except for Goose…well, that would be easy. 

"Follow me," he told him, as they reached the stone steps that led down to the dungeon. Glancing over his shoulder, Draco was caught once again in the powerful dark eyes of Weasley. He didn't know she was so close behind him or he wouldn't have looked. It was too late, though, and another memory was breaking through the wall Draco had built in his mind to keep it out. He could feel the pain in his arm as reality was torn away from him for the second time.

He was sitting on a raised slab of cold marble, somewhat like a table, but meant for much darker intentions. A steady flow of deep, burgundy blood was flowing down from his left forearm and onto his clenched fist. The drops fell to the floor with a grim rhythm. Dolohov stood hunched over Draco with a wicked sneer on his rough, sweaty face. The knife that had been used to etch his mark was lying on the table next to him, and the Death Eater in front of him was now filling the sharp wounds with a charmed black ink. Some of it left the fresh cuts and mingled with his blood, following it to the end of his hand and falling to the rank, moist floor. Dolohov took a dirty rag and wiped the blood off of the jagged gashes in Draco's arm. It smeared across his white skin and made him feel nauceous. He looked away and tried to keep breathing. When he finally turned to see it, the Dark Mark glared up at him maliciously, confirming the cold fear that had always haunted him; this was his fate.

"One more step," laughed Dolohov with a hint of sinister sarcasm. He muttered a spell, pointing his wand at the new tattoo, but Draco couldn't make out the words, he spoke them too lowly. A searing, burning sensation was traveling through his body from the skull and snake on his forearm. He felt the Dark Lord's pain, anger, bitter rage, revenge, and horrifying endeavors spreading like a poison. It was as though a hand was grabbing, digging into him; he felt the venom reacting in his brain. His mind was being caged into the Dark Lord's desires. He was becoming a slave to the same man his father and grandfather served. So it runs it the family, I guess, he thought miserably, closing his eyes and struggling to fight back tears. Life was unfair, Draco knew that, but to deserve this was beyond the shallow scope of fairness. His life from now on would be a true living hell. But it was his only choice with the exception of death. He'd chosen a life of meager slavery to a slow, gruesome, but righteous death at the hands of his father. Draco opened his eyes once again in resignation, looking to Dolohov for closure in the ritual. Dolohov gave him a savage grin and with pride in his voice, said, "Now you are one of the most loyal of the master's followers. You should consider yourself blessed to have such an opportunity."

Blessed. Cursed was much closer to the truth; the raw truth that no one would allow him to face. What was it after all? They had hid it from him for so long now that even if he did see it, Draco was unsure if he'd be able to recognize how it looked, what it meant, if it was any better than the life he was bound to serve with his pureblood family and a black mask to hide his own face. The face he'd been given was free of guilt and darkness and troubles, but after all the years Lucius had told him what was right and wrong, those instincts he'd been given were wiped away, and his face was nothing but a disguise of snobby rich pride to keep away the questions of an unstable identity. What was right and wrong? Who was he? What was the truth that was taken from him? It felt like a part of his soul was ripped away. Rapidly, a headache started to form, and Draco somehow knew why. The Dark Lord didn't want any of his servants to think like that…so he wouldn't…

Goose was shaking Draco's arm with a worried look upon his face. "Hey! Hey Draco! What's wrong?" 

Draco found himself staring into Ginny Weasley's eyes, still staring with an unfathomable bond. She looked terribly frightened, and immediately turned and dashed off in the opposite direction. Draco turned back and walked with Goose down to the common room, not knowing what else to do. Maybe tomorrow would be a good day to "get a hold" of Weasley and see what she was doing and why. He felt another of his usual migraines coming on, so after a short introduction to being in Slytherin and warning him about how to act in front of the rest of them (as he was quite unusual for someone in the house) he removed himself from the room and went downstairs to go to bed.

_~Evyfleur_


	2. Discussions, Decisions, and Debates of t...

**Truth in the Eyes of an Enemy**

**Disclaimer-** You know I don't own it, Warner Bros. J.K. the Magnificent does. It is her great creation, not yours, and if you don't see that, I'll sic my Niffler on your merchandise-made-possible, shiny, insulting Rolexes. Grr and nee to you! Now go away.

**Chapter Two:**

_Discussions, Decisions, and Debates of the Mind_

            The next day might have dawned fresh and bright for someone in a slightly better situation than Draco was. They might have opened their eyes and greeted it with warmth in their hearts and a smile on their face. Probably in the Gryffindor dorms, Draco thought as the sun rose bitterly for him, its sharp rays striking his eyes and forcing him to wake from a sleep with no peace. At least it was some relative rest, though. Draco sat up with a groan and noticed he'd fallen asleep in his clothes; his nice, clean, pressed, expensive clothes. The kind he always wore but his father would be angry if he knew they got sullied by a night of fitful wrinkling and staleness. Heaving himself out of the four poster bed through the dark emerald curtains and away from the side where the sun shone in the charmed window (the Slytherin dorm rooms were underground), trying to torture him. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and pulled another perfect, slightly aromatic uniform out of his chest of drawers. 

            After washing up and getting changed, pinning his prefect badge to his robes, brushing his teeth and applying liberal amounts of gel to his hair, Draco left out his other uniform to be taken and cleaned by the elves, gave a menacing glare at the other seventh year boys currently in the dorm and left the room to go upstairs. Breakfast was waiting hot and tasty in the Great Hall for those cheerful students, ready for a smashing first day of the year, but Draco wasn't hungry at all after the previous night, and the thought of food only worsened the nauseated feeling he'd been carrying in his stomach since that memory assaulted him in the Hogwarts express. Staying only to collect his schedule from a tight-lipped Professor McGonagall, Draco decided to leave before Goose could arrive to talk his ear off and bombard him with millions of questions.

            In the hall he just happened to see a slim figure with bright red hair also walking along, her bag slung over her shoulder in a casual manner. Draco sped up, anxious to talk to her before class started. There had to be a reasonable explanation for those visions he'd experienced seemingly every time he looked her in the eye. She would know. She had to know. He hoped she was only causing it, though, and not seeing the visions as well as him. That had the potential chance of completely ruining the plan he'd been calculating for her and then there would be no purpose at all left to attending school this year. With a glance over her shoulder and a quickened pace, Draco knew Weasley had noticed he was after her. No need to hide now, then, he decided, walking faster. She started to run and turned hastily down a corridor, obviously hoping to lose him, but he appeared around the corner into the same corridor, close at her heels. Anger rushing through his veins with a sudden powerful capacity, Draco no longer cared about being attractive or polite in her eyes. He didn't care about her at all. He just wanted to know what had happened to _him._ Why was he being forced to see these things again? A rush of vengeful strength suddenly filled him as he overtook her. It was coming from his left arm and with no control over himself, he pinned Weasley to the wall, his hand clutching a fistful of her black robes. His teeth were clenched in fury, but despite himself, he tried to catch his breath. It was coming in short, ragged gasps. He stood away from her, his hand still holding her by the neck of her robes, and was looking resolutely in the opposite direction, trying to calm down. Weasley looked at the back of his head as she tried to capture her own breath, a puzzled expression on her face. Draco furrowed his brow and swallowed roughly, staring down the hallway instead of at his captive.

            "Let me go," she whispered, trying to pry his fingers away from her robes and throat. 

            "No," he responded firmly, still looking away. "I want to know something." He didn't know how to possibly frame a question of the magnitude he had been spending vigorous cerebration on with any sort of tact. Then again, he hadn't stopped her to discuss it in the most diplomatic fashion, either.

            "Well, I wasn't to know something first," she declared boldly. "Why won't you even look at me?" 

            "Because every time I do I'm faced with visions that aren't the most pleasant for me. Why is that, Weasley? Have I done something to upset you, so you decided to curse me? Please, at least let me know so I can be sure I'm not losing my mind." He finally straightened up and stared at the ceiling in aggravation. But Weasley wasn't answering his question. 

The only noise he could make out from her was a soft sob and a pathetic sniffle. Startled, Draco turned to her. She was crying as silently as possible, tears streaming down her face. One landed on Draco's hand. He immediately removed a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and shoved it in front of her. She took it with a shaky hand and dabbed her eyes. Dangerous eyes, thought Draco somberly. 

"I don't know why it happened, but it was only when I wasn't expecting it. I didn't know you would glance at me on the train. I didn't know you would turn around in the hall last night. I don't know what to do," she told him, shaking her head helplessly. Draco gave an unstable sigh, his worst fears were concluding truthfully.

"So…so y-you saw those memories, Weasley? You saw them?" He demanded loudly. She broke into another fit of sobbing. 

"Those were memories?" she asked in stunned disbelief, her hands covering her face in an alarmed disgrace.

"Hey!" shouted someone who was running down the corridor. It was Weasley's older brother. He reached her and Draco in no time at all, it seemed, and without delay took Draco's hand away from his sister, looking infuriated and rather like a very protective dog. 

"What were you doing? Tell me what you were doing, you mangy ferret! This'll teach you not to mess with my sister."

"Ron!" Weasley yelled, trying to him off. She looked highly disconcerted at her brother's actions, but he had already pounced on Draco, arms flailing everywhere as he punched every part of the Slytherin where Draco couldn't protect himself. 

"Stop it!" she pleaded screechingly, finally gaining her bearings and dragging her brother away from Draco. She stared down at him, not with loathing, mock, contempt, rage, shock, or any of the other looks that the Weasleys usually bestowed upon him. No, her gaze was a fearful, piercing one, that penetrated his guard farther than anyone, including his father, had ever done. 

"Why should I?" he demanded incredulously, clenching his fists and glaring down at the cowering, pale boy.

"Just go. C'mon, Ron, I'm fine, let's go." Weasley left with her bodyguard and no backward glance. Draco stood and leaned against the wall, wiping a drop of blood from his mouth, and watched them go with acute observation. The larger Weasley had long, determined strides and was shooting questions at his sister. She, on the other hand, also took long steps, but she appeared a bit more hesitant in them. She bit her lip and answered the interrogation with an expression that showed signs of laborious concentration. So she was lying, or at least tactfully refraining from divulging the ghastly truth that she, of all people, was watching Draco's most worrisome and difficult memories. Than at least she wasn't against him, he decided, picking up his bag and dusting his robes off. The floors were filthy. What careless elves they had at Hogwarts. Draco made his way off to class, glowering at anyone who walked past and refusing to talk to anyone who approached him. 

Transfiguration was especially difficult that day: trying to transform an elephant into an ivory necklace was (as he saw it) quite unnecessary in life and required an exorbitant amount of power behind the spell; power fueled by the energy Draco did not have. Study of Ancient Runes was easy but monotonous and double History of Magic classes gave him more time than he needed or wanted to spend thinking about the situation at hand and how he would have to deal with it the whole year. A terrible first day of school with the sound of Weasley's questions and cries echoing through his mind again and again did nothing but cause another pounding headache, knocking on his skull as though it was taunting him, teasing him and cackling with a malevolent grin. Draco gave into the exhaustion and trudged into the Great Hall for supper, several people looking at him strangely, not expecting the usually snobbish and overly confident Malfoy to appear deflated and drained. Goose remarked that he looked rather peaky when he sat down, so Draco ate as much as he could, despite the constant sick feeling he had.

*~~~~~~*~~~~~~*~~~~~~*~~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~~*

As the next few weeks passed, Draco regained his air of confidence and the smirk he had stopped wearing was back on his face. He was attempting very fervently to stay as far away from Ginny Weasley as possible for many reasons at this point, some of which included:

1) If he was seen by her brother, Granger, or Potter anywhere in the vicinity of a corridor where she was, he was liable to end up in the Hospital Wing for several days recovering from bat bogey jinxes.

2) He was, to put it frankly, freaked out by the fact that Weasley had admitted in her fit of tears that she couldn't control this strange, mind-reading magic. It would not look very good for his reputation or his family if he suddenly dropped to the floor in unexpected visions and revealed some vital secret of the Dark Lord, or even worse, if he went mad.

3) He had scared Weasley out of her wits telling her what she was actually seeing was portions of things that had really happened to him, whether he wanted them to happen or not.

So, in conclusion, Draco let go of the original idea he had come up with on the train, though it still tempted him. It would end up being much too complicated, coaxing Weasley into falling in love with him and his…dark history that she now knew about. Instead, he decided to focus on his father's commands. Not that any had come yet, though. That was starting to worry him. Lucius said that he needed Draco at Hogwarts that year, but so far there was no letter from him. No demands, plans, tests of his loyalty were coming to confront him, and that disturbed him more than the expected letters themselves. Draco sighed and tried once again to concentrate on his Rune translation. He, even after being distracted for several minutes (read: about half an hour), finished his assignment before the class was over and a shrill ring of the bell told students they could leave. Professor Aeramayik gave the remainder of the potion instructions they were translating for homework. He strode up to the front of the class with his bag and dispensed his paper on the Professor's desk. The door had almost closed on his way out when he heard the teacher call him back inside.

            "Yes, Professor?" He asked in his most fetching voice, though inside he was tired and just wanted to have lunch. These headaches were becoming worse daily, and always came back whenever he happened upon a spur of hope. It dampened his prospects of learning anything worthwhile during seventh year. His N.E.W.T. grades would probably be in the bottom of the class. He hadn't slept in days and blamed it on anxiety in class, but that wasn't the source of his problem, and Draco knew that quite well. He was merely denying it. Denial was such an easy device to use whenever guilt or fear was involved. It was probably what got him through the first six years of school.

            "Mr. Malfoy, are you aware that you have an incredible gift for translating runes? You are in the Advanced N.E.W.T. preparatory course and this is the-" she paused to check her grade scroll, "fourteenth interpretation you have turned in early. There isn't a thing wrong with that, of course," she went on, seeing the puzzled frown on Draco's face, "You are very talented."

            Needless to say, Draco was quite surprised to hear that he was actually getting good grades in a class. He'd just been doing his work without a thought to what effect it would have on him. Draco blinked, trying to absorb this information. 

            "Mr. Malfoy? Did you hear me?" Professor Aeramayik asked good-naturedly, snapping Draco from his thoughts. 

            "Oh, yes. Excuse me. Thank you, I'm glad to hear that I'm doing well."

            "Well? That's a harsh understatement of yourself, Mr. Malfoy, you're much too modest. Why, Professor Dumbledore even told me he wanted to see you," she said matter-of-factly, pursing her lips as if it was a delicious treat she had just confided in him. Draco could feel himself blanching. 

            "H-he needs to see me?" He asked just to make sure he hadn't mistaken what she said and what he heard. 

            "Yes, yes, Mr. Malfoy!"

            "When?"

 Draco's mind was racing. Dumbledore was near psychic, he would see right through him; maybe he could try to put it off until the headmaster forgot. He was old…it could be possible?

            "Today, of course. As soon as I told him how well you were doing he said he wanted to see you immediately after class was over. Off you go!" She finished, shoving him gently out the door and closing it behind him with a bang! that suggested finality. Who was he kidding? Dumbledore would not forget that he had asked Draco to come to his office. He wasn't the most low-key, non-descript student in school anyway. Draco walked in a numb, fearful sort of confusion to Dumbledore's office. The gargoyle stood guard at the door with a toothy grin and blank, slanting eyes. Draco didn't know the password. It was fortunate that McGonagall passed at that particular time, too, because Draco caught a glance of Weasley, who had just turned down the corridor.

            "Erm, Professor McGonagall, could you tell me what the password is? Dumbledore said he wanted to see-" But she cut him off with a glare that obviously displayed her beliefs of his complete dishonesty and idiocy. 

            "I am perfectly aware of what Professor Dumbledore said. The password is Puking Pastilles." She looked quite miffed indeed by the headmaster's choice of passwords. Draco had heard these terms by some of the more contemptible members of his house, something about skipping classes. That was certainly not an honorable thing to do, so Draco refrained at all costs from being lazy about schoolwork. Lucius had always told him he needed all the instruction possible to overcome the stupidity he was born with. McGonagall looked at him with a strange expression. Oh yes, he'd been staring at her without meaning to. Perhaps he was more tired than he thought. 

            "Mr. Malfoy, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to make use of the password I've given you?" 

            "Sorry. I, of course I'll use the password." How was it that McGonagall could make anyone feel like a half-wit convicted criminal? He turned around and muttered the password to the stone gargoyle, who sprang away and Draco stepped forward onto the moving staircase, looking behind him to see his professor shake her head as if to say "a hopeless case" and march off down the corridor. When he reached the headmaster's door, he hesitated. He closed his eyes, silently wishing to be anywhere else (though perhaps not in his father's study), swallowed hard, and with an immense effort, managed to knock on the door ever so lightly. His headache pounded harder in his head, trying to get him to turn around and leave, telling him Dumbledore was not there. The Dark Lord didn't want him there, whatever was going on. He finally did turn around with a sigh of relief and just when he was about to run down the steps, the door creaked open with an ancient sound and Dumbledore gave him an amused perusal through his half-moon spectacles. Oh, how Draco had learned to hate that expression, as Lucius always complained of its scrutiny, pretending to be full of integrity, innocence and amiability. It was not candid, but only the result of endless practice of an old wizard with cheap tricks to finding out what his friends and acquaintances really think. Draco hardened his expression and tried to appear neutral.

            "Mr. Malfoy, are you in a hurry? You were going to depart so soon! Please, come in and take a seat."

            Draco was steered by his headmaster into the office and sat nervously in one of the chairs that he would have noticed were comfortable if he hadn't had any problem with being there. He looked around at the several strange devices in the curious office, trying to avoid the twinkling blue eyes and piercing gaze of its owner. Dumbledore seemed to know everything about Draco; perhaps more than he knew himself, he could read him like a book. Must be a pretty pathetic story, Draco couldn't help thinking. 

            "Lemon drop?" he offered graciously.

"No, thank you," Draco replied, seriously disapproving any sort of muggle candy. It would be like eating poison.

            "Very well, then. Is there anything you'd like to tell me?" He was right after all. The great professor knew there was something wrong with Draco.

            "No, I'm fine," he said as calmly as possible. He was used to lying through his teeth, this kind of thing was a casual and frequent occurrence, but in front of Dumbledore he felt like he had no skill in it at all. He gave a small smirk meant to look like an innocent, honest smile. Dumbledore nodded complacently. They sat for several minutes without a sound, it was getting to be rather tense and Draco started to wonder if he should leave. He rose tentatively from the chair.

            "Professor Dumbledore, is there anything else you need from me, or…"

            "Ah, there she is," he said, interrupting him. Draco turned around curiously to lock eyes with Weasley once again, not expecting the memory that came with it. 

            Lucius leaned across his thick oak desk to look Draco in the eye. He was trying to stare at the floor but it wasn't working too well. His father raised a platinum eyebrow and clenched his teeth in exasperation. He was certainly bordering on the precipice of anger, considering Draco's recent rebellious behavior. 

            "I said do you understand me?" he repeated, a cold note resounding throughout the already frigid room. How he could keep it like this in the summer was beyond Draco's comprehension. He would explain to his father one more time. Maybe he would finally understand. Just one last time, he forced himself, as his insides seemed to vanish with a shudder. 

            "No. I want to learn Dark Arts like everyone else. Why won't you let me?" Draco looked up to face his father but his attention was drawn to what was behind Lucius. It was a handsome and shining mirror with a large, ornate, gold-gilded frame. His jaw and eye, he could see in its flawless reflection, were still badly bruised; a nasty purple spot was reaching all the way across the left side of his face. Left in Latin meant sinister, though that wasn't what his motive was when getting the bruise. He had tried to escape the house by climbing out of his window into an old tree whose branch didn't happen to be very secure, or alive for that matter. After that he figured there must be a simpler, easier way of getting away from the Manor.

            Lucius looked away with slight annoyance and gave an impatient sigh; his tenacious nature ran like hot steel into his silver eyes as he got up and stepped out from behind the desk. He held Draco's chin firmly in his pale hand. Turning his son's face upward to look at him he replied with a domineering authority.

            "You have no right to ask why I'm keeping you at Hogwarts. You will serve a purpose; therefore you will obey my orders and remain there. Don't you want to serve the Dark Lord in any way you can? I would hope so…otherwise I don't think your future has much hope in it." He said each word slowly and distinctly making sure Draco caught every word. All he could think of, though, was how much he wanted to say "I don't think my future ever had much hope in it," but he didn't. He gave a hesitant nod, closing his eyes, and suddenly found himself back in Dumbledore's office. He was still looking at Weasley; sweat was pouring down his face uncontrollably and he was out of breath, panting heavily. Weasley seemed horrified once again, though the memory had been mild; short and mostly verbal. She closed her eyes and held her fists tightly to her sides, biting her lip nervously. Dumbledore stared hard at Draco and then at Weasley with equal interest. 

            "Please, sit down," he beckoned to them, gesturing to two chairs in the room. They both sat, sinking into the comfortable seats with a lack of energy and Weasley with a mumbled and grateful 'thanks'. By means of exploring the office (each looking in the other direction) Draco and Weasley avoided each other's eyes. The headmaster remained on his feet and merely seemed to be in deep cerebration, noiselessly pacing for about fifteen minutes. Draco, in his quest to avert his eyes from those of the other persons in the room, found an attraction in the ancient sorting hat who was watching their appointment cautiously, in the old portraits of former headmasters snoozing away, in the proud red and gold plumed phoenix on his perch in the corner, and in the sleek, strong sword that bore the name Godric Gryffindor and had dark rubies set in its simple yet elegant hilt. 

            "May I ask what just occurred?" he asked abruptly, shaking Draco from his concentration. He asked this with no force in his voice but a severe, demanding expression on his face. Draco had never seen the twinkle, that taunting twinkle leave the face of Albus Dumbledore before, but today it did, and somehow it awoke a feeling in him that wanted to be loyal to him. He wanted to leave the side of his father and the Death Eaters and join this solemn man in a hunt for a monster that had ruined the lives of all in the wizarding world. The reminding strike of his migraine brought him back to the cruel reality. There was no right and wrong. There was just gray and grayer. Draco knew what he was doing and so he ignored the question. He tried with futility to rub the deep shadows from his eyes, the shadows that had been developed carefully, nurtured by his lack of sleep, the tossing and turning he was going through every night. It was all he could do to go to school; it seemed he would never have a moment of happiness again. Weasley was nearby, crying in a silent manner; only her sniffling could be heard. But it was she who finally mustered up enough courage to answer his question. 

            "Professor, I don't understand it, but I keep reading Malfoy's memories. I don't mean to do it, really, but it's almost every time I see him. This has never happened before, really, and it only happens with him. No one else." 

            Draco didn't like the way she was emphasizing that he was the only one. It made him sound like a criminal; a con artist who had somehow tricked her against her will into reading what he remembered. He'd rather not remember it himself, why would he want anyone else to be faced with such things? His thoughts were interrupted by Dumbledore sitting down in his rickety tall chair. He seemed slightly confused and that supernatural appearance he'd held only a moment before had suddenly melted away to reveal a tired old man, just trying to figure it all out.

            "Is this true?" he asked Draco gravely. 

            "I believe so," said Draco in a voice that seemed much too deep to be his own.

            Dumbledore sighed wearily. Giving them a long look through his spectacles, he took his bag of lemon drops and offered one to Weasley. 

            "Thank you," she whispered, placing the translucent yellow candy in her mouth. She was wiping her tears away with her sleeve. He felt so guilty. There was no rhyme or reason for it, either. He wasn't causing it. At least, he did not believe he was causing it. He rubbed his left arm in a compulsive sort of way, glancing over at Weasley again. She was looking at the headmaster with the most trusting, hopeful expression he'd ever seen. It was as if she knew he was going to win over the Dark Lord. She had no long-lasting fear, only a fleeting emotion that seized her at times when she happened to be out of Dumbledore's sight. She would give her life for him, Draco realized with a strange feeling in his chest. She would die so that this old man, her mentor, would live on. 

            "I'm sorry. I've never seen the like to this before. Has it been happening at all years prior to this, for either of you?" 

            They both shook their heads slowly, Weasley giving an almost silent slurping on her lemon drop. 

            "Do you think you might be able to wait it out for a few weeks and see if it vanishes, then?"

            "We could try," Weasley answered with her usual, courageous air. 

            "Why not," Draco added sardonically, trying to appear coolly calm.

"Good. We'll have to see about that, then, won't we? Right now, though, I must ask you both for a very important favor." What had happened? Just a moment ago it seemed this was the top of his agenda and now, suddenly, it meant nothing more than a stray breeze flowing through the window. 

            "It will aid the Order to a great degree," he added, looking significantly at Weasley with a grandfatherly affection in his now softened eyes. No one had ever looked at Draco in such a way, let alone his headmaster. Weasley seemed honored by this consideration and a smile almost graced her lips before she pulled it away in concern. What was the Order? He'd heard his father speak about it before in a horrible connotation, though Dumbledore wasn't treating it this way. The context was similar in both discussions, though. Draco was afraid to ask what it was, but he knew he had to. His headache just got worse thinking about it.

            "What's that?" he managed to say.

            "The Order?"

            "Yes."

            "I will be honest with you, Mr. Malfoy. The Order of the Phoenix is a group of wizards fighting against the forces of Voldemort," Dumbledore paused as Draco flinched, "and his Death Eaters. If you help, it will provide vital information to the Order. Can you accept that? Will you help?" He looked at him with discerning blue eyes and must have descried a faint note of vigorously repressed panic in Draco's face. He couldn't stand waiting for Dumbledore to tell him he knew exactly what he was thinking, to tell him he knew exactly what was going on.

            "No! I can't help you. I'd literally be destroying myself." Draco didn't intend to reply so coldly; it just came out that way. Then again, maybe he didn't care. Dumbledore didn't care about playing tricks with him, why should he suffer compunction over being frank? Draco got up from his chair and crossed the room to the desk of his elderly, wise headmaster with something both daring and excessively stupid to do. He didn't know whether it was to spite him, his father, or the Dark Lord, but without hesitation he pulled down the sleeve of his black robes to expose the Dark Mark, engraved boldly on his left arm. Dumbledore stared at him, not at the mark, with something reminding Draco of pity. 

            "Do you want that life?" he asked Draco genuinely. He spun around and walked away from the old man, not knowing what to say. Weasley recoiled in her chair as if he was about to attack her. Suddenly words came to him.

            "Well I don't really have a choice, do I? You'll kill me if I say yes, he'll kill me if I say no…it's just what happened; I followed my father's orders so I could survive. That's the philosophy I live by now. I just want to survive and that's the only life I had to choose. It was either this life…or no life." Draco stopped his drastic pacing in front of a table covered in silver contraptions.

"But I'd rather be killed by you. It would hurt a lot more if he killed me."

That was the most truthful answer he'd ever given anyone before, perhaps because he just couldn't find the effort to care anymore. There wasn't any sleep to look forward to; he never slept as his migraines kept him awake. There wasn't any food that could please his appetite; every time he ate he felt sick. Classes were dull and uninteresting and only Snape and Aeramayik didn't loathe him because of his family. The one thing that kept him going was the prospect of getting away from his present life once graduation was over. Weasley had been a hopeful idea at one point, but obviously that was not going to work out. The question Dumbledore was posing for him now could possibly turn all that hope (not much) upside down…but possibly all the dread, too. It was a risk to his future, his beliefs, and his life, Why not, though? He had hit rock bottom and if there was any rope to pull him out, whether sturdy or not, it was a rope and he'd take it. 

"I'll help," he said resignedly, sitting down and covering his pale face with his unsteady hands, "as long as you don't mind making an exception for one death eater."

"You're the second," Dumbledore said kindly, smiling at him. Draco looked up at him and suddenly felt a surge of gratefulness for a potentially beneficial offer instead of the Dark Lord's grip, powered by pain and fear. 

"This is what I need you to do, Mr. Malfoy. I need your translating skills to decipher some documents, as I've heard you are the best Rune student in school. So I don't think it will pose too difficult a challenge for you." He turned to face Weasley, who looked relatively relieved, and continued. "Ginny, I have been told you are one of the most advanced students in transfiguration at the moment. I was wondering if you'd mind turning the coded documents into a readable form for Mr. Malfoy to translate. As they are, I believe it would be rather impossible…" he gave a secretive smile that neither Draco nor Weasley understood, but they both nodded silently, waiting for more instructions.

"Please meet at the Whomping Willow tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. There will be someone there to escort you to the place where the objects are being kept safe. Madame Pince has consented to having several books there also for your reference. Thank you for your help. You may go." He cast a discerning look after Draco as he got up to leave.

Draco got up shuddering from the strange outburst of emotions he had and hastily left the office. Weasley followed him at almost the same speed, not talking but keeping up. They walked through corridors quickly and quietly together, not without sneaking curious glance at one another. When Draco finally turned down another hall to go to his common room, he could hear Weasley stop. He could feel her staring at his back. He stopped, too, and turned around, his headache worsening. She was gazing intently at him, a restrained expression on her face.

"Yes?" he growled. She backed away slightly, as if he was right there, and opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. 

"Excuse me; I'm in a bit of a mood. What did you want to say?" 

She found her voice once again. "Malfoy, I wanted to apologize. I know you don't need this and I just wanted to say…I'm sorry. I'll try to make sure it doesn't happen again."

"You could just leave me alone. Then it wouldn't happen again," he muttered rather harshly. At that, he spun on his heel and walked off to the Slytherin common room.

_~Evyfleur_


	3. The Posession of Miss Weasley

**Truth in the Eyes of an Enemy: Chapter 3**

**Author's Note:** Nice to see you all here to read the third chapter of my rather word-hefty fic. I'm so glad you like it! Please read and review as always and I will be a very happy person. Yay. To those who reviewed before:

**Enter the Extinct Age- **Thank you, Red! I love getting reviews like yours, it really tells me what exactly I have to be looking at as I write these chapters, please keep reviewing. I'm sorry I haven't had much time but I will most definitely read your fic. I hope you like this chapter, a few unexpected things happen in it, but you know, Draco's character is so deeply entrenched in his roots, he has to change slowly. And he will never be someone who likes pet rabbits, if you take my meaning. Woohoo! Thank you so much!

**Lady Rhiyana- **Thank you for your fantastic review. As to Goose, I think you will be able to see in this chapter that he is a very strong person despite his age, in contrast with Draco's intense but weak identity. Goose will be a good influence on him, I think, as long as he's around…keep on reading, and I will most definitely try to retain the same level of introspection that I have been using in my first two chapters.

**Reiven****- yay! I'm glad. The lake's going to be frozen soon, anyway. Then there's no way I can jump in it! Obviously. I'm such a non-sequiter, excuse me. Thank you for the lovely review!**

**bobby****- glad you like it! Yes, I love Goose too, not to be arrogant. He will have a very interesting future, so please keep reading.**

**lipstickandbruises****-**** Thank you for your review, I'm happy you like my story. Please keep reading and keep reviewing, dear friend.**

**Leigh- **Yay! I finally have chapter three up! Inconceivable, isn't it? Well anyway, I'll see you in school, thanks for the review, buddy!

**Nikki- **I've updated! Thank you for your compliment! Please keep reading!

**Electryone****- You are the one who sees my true purpose to writing this story. I despise when characters are lost in vapid clichés…they almost implode, you know? Please keep reading and be sure to tell me if I'm doing the unthinkable. Thank you so much for your review!**

**mei****-Your wish is my command! Please enjoy!**

**The Possession of Miss Weasley**

            Draco was hoping that the next day would drift by in a slow fashion, allowing him to think on all the things he was now expected to do and how he should behave. However, Lady Luck merely sneered on him, as she usually did, and sent the day by in a whirlwind of quidditch practice, meals, and classes. He wasn't expecting to come to half the conclusions he did that day. Every time he thought about it, Draco felt ashamed of his rash decision to show Dumbledore his mark and immediately agree to help him. He was being reckless and as his father usually told him, supremely unintelligent. 

After classes, Goose hunted him down for a chat, worrying about how Draco was hanging his head "so low I fear it might brush the ground!" He said this with a chuckle, of course, but Draco couldn't find it as humorous as his friend did. He confided in Goose only that Dumbledore had asked Draco's help and he felt guilty about agreeing to it. But it wasn't just that, he felt (though he didn't tell Goose these thoughts) guilty…or he regretted something. 

At this point, he couldn't truly tell them apart from one another. It couldn't be anything to do with his father. Any way Draco could possibly spite him, he would. He didn't love his father anymore. In fact, it had been years since he had felt anything more than an alliance between them. Draco laughed darkly. Even that was gone now. His father had only one purpose in Draco's life, and that was to keep his reputation up with the right people. Or were they the wrong people? He couldn't descry that either. But then again, who did know who was good or bad? He had been betrayed by his family and "friends" too much to know. No one was good or bad. They just were. He just was. In any case, the alliance with his father had been broken, and that was the only aspect of his decision that didn't make him want to become ill all over the ground his head was so nearly sweeping.

"Well, I'm sorry mate, but think of it this way: how many of the rest of us will get to help Dumbledore in his secret business?" Goose was trying to encourage him. Draco jerked his senses away from space and his plagued thoughts of past occurrences he could do nothing to change, telling himself it didn't matter, and turned to Goose. 

"You're most likely right. I'll attempt to think of this situation more…optimistically. Excuse my disposition, I'm rather tired." 

Now he caught a glimpse of a clump of Slytherin boys about the same age as him on the other end of the courtyard, blatantly looking straight at him and muttering loudly to one another. Some were pointing and laughing. Others glowered in a menacing way. Draco's frown deepened in anger. He stood up, away from the wall he'd been leaning against and stared back coolly at the group that was moving toward him, malicious glints in their eyes, whether they be serious or mocking.

"Watch it, Goose. You might want to go somewhere else."

Goose looked up at him and at the boys and tore off, not desiring to be the only "ickle firstie" in a conversation held by a storm cloud of seventh years. Instead he stood inside the open air hallway and chatted with a few of his Ravenclaw friends about the Charms homework, sneaking glances at Draco every so often.

"What are you doin', hangin' out with him?" the (apparent) leader or the snarling pack asked Draco rather testily.

"He _is a Slytherin. __And a purebood. Am I not permitted to socialize with him?"_

"He is not a Slytherin. Not a true one at any rate…jus' look at him! He's talkin' to people _outside the house."_

"And?" Draco insisted, patience hastily ebbing away. He closed his fists beside him, trying to control himself. The bell for dinner rang in the distance, leaving him and the Slytherin gang alone in the chilly courtyard. Draco swallowed down his apprehensiveness.

"And we happened to hear you were making a deal with Dumbledore," said another burly looking guy, rather slowly. Draco couldn't help thinking it must have taken him five minutes to think of saying it. They stared into him expectantly. It reminded Draco of his father. He gave them a wilting, disbelieving look and acted casual. 

"Do you really think I would do such a thing? Of course I wouldn't," he put in quickly, the unconvinced looks on their faces frightening him. "I'm loyal to the Dark Lord for life!"

"We don' believe you," said the leader, shoving a deriding finger into Draco's chest. He stood his ground. "We saw you talkin' with that Weasley freak." He said this with the utmost contempt.

"She isn't a freak," Draco said softly. But as soon as the words had left his lips, he knew it had been a fatal mistake. The air was suddenly filled with atrocious names they were swearing at him. With a wham! all the breath had been knocked out of him; an absence that shocked more than harmed his fragile state. He staggered and fell back against the wall; a particular one of the stones grinding its jagged edge into his spine. Someone gave him a blow to the face. Draco could feel the thick flow of blood coming from his nose in an abundant stream; he could taste the warmth and iron of it in his mouth. They just wouldn't stop, though. With a dim thought, Draco wondered why he was being punished so brutally for so small a mistake! He could feel the soles of their shoes in his side and he knew he was no longer leaning against the wall. The scent of sweet grass filled his nostrils with the slight bitterness of the chlorophyll. It tickled his neck, cushioning some of the blows as if Hogwarts was taking his side, protecting him from the pain that coursed through his body, but more, from the anger that was taking over. They had no right to do this! But they did, no matter, couldn't hear him pleading through his clenched teeth. And then everything fell into darkness, and Draco knew that in the thick blackness it wouldn't hurt so badly anymore. 

Someone was shaking him vigorously. There was an empty knot in his stomach that tightened as Draco opened his eyes to reveal Goose standing over him in a background of cobalt. The stars were double now, slowly returning to their natural place and natural number; they shined on him lucidly. He gasped in panic.

"What time is it?" He grabbed Goose by the collar, who appeared quite nonplussed at his sudden action, but pretending to be calm he said quickly,

"Mmm, around seven. I figured when you didn't come to dinner that something must have happened. Sorry, I-" 

"I have to go," Draco said curtly and tried to get up. His ribs felt bruised, causing an excruciating sensitivity to his whole torso as he bent. "However, I, er," he tried to say without being too desperate. 

"Yeah, I figured. Here," Goose remarked, holding out an abnormally large hand to help him up. With a reluctant struggle, he managed to find his feet and Goose genially let Draco lean on him to lead the way across the grounds to the majestic, dangerous Whomping Willow, which was looking a menacing greenish-gray in the early darkness. There had always been something rather strange about that tree, other than the obvious fact that it would violently attack anyone who came near its trunk. Draco couldn't quite put his finger on it. About halfway there, though, he realized the lack of respectability at being led by a first year through the grounds, as if Draco couldn't take care of himself. So he broke away, thanking Goose tersely for his aid and sending him back up to the warm castle.

He was limping slightly on his left ankle; it must have gotten twisted when he fell, or when they were kicking him. No big deal. He could just stop by the hospital wing and briefly see Madam Pomfrey about it after the meeting, which he was praying wouldn't be too long. The pain in his ribs seemed to be worsening.

Weasley was sitting just far enough from the tree that it couldn't touch her. She threw stones at it playfully and it reacted as if enraged, but she simply laughed lightly and carried on, quite amused with her new sport. Draco immediately straightened up, though it cost him some pain, and made sure that there was no blood on his face. He appeared decent and acceptable enough; his hair was a bit mussed and his robes stained by the grass, but that could be gotten from any activity pursued at Hogwarts. Other than that, he plastered the Malfoy smirk on his face, assumed an air of noble superiority, and continued walking. A haunting whisper echoed in his mind: "Let no one see your weaknesses."

She appeared to be angry as he approached her. Then he remembered what he had said to her the night before. His eyes fell to the ground and searched the grass for disguise from her guilt-bestowing expression. Or was it guilt? For the tenth time that day, it seemed, he was receiving that feeling he could not recognize. It was guilt, and it was regret, but still yet it was neither of those two. He could not find anything to say to her among the sharp green blades either. He couldn't…except a greeting, perhaps. 

"Weasley," he said coldly.

She didn't say anything, but got up and raised her hand. Draco leveled his face to hers when he suddenly realized she was going to slap him. He probably deserved it, that he knew, though he couldn't help feeling a stab of hatred for her. She stopped. Gasping in shock, she stared at him open-mouthed. Apparently they had both divulged secrets, though. He could see she had been crying. Her face was a lovely, rosy hue and her cheeks were damp with the remains of a few tears. The dangerous brown eyes she beheld him with were slightly bloodshot. 

"Malfoy!" she exhaled, lowering her hand, still looking him full in the face.

"What?" he shot back at her, being slightly pricklier than he should have been.

"Your face," she replied, ignoring his tone. Of course, he scolded himself; the punch would have left a nasty bruise around his jaw and cheek. He was always getting bruises there. She lifted her hand again and touched his face gingerly. The cold fingers tingled against his skin, warning him he was appearing vulnerable, taunting him. With a sudden intense fear of the consequences, Draco seized her wrist and stepped away from her.

"Don't touch me!" he bellowed…he had to say something to separate her from him more, though, or she would question him later. "Your poverty might rub off on me. We wouldn't want that." His voice reminded him so completely of Lucius that it wounded him. That statement left no sense of remorse untouched, especially as Weasley jerked her wrist away and gave him a bitter, disbelieving look.

Then something caught the attention of the pair. There was an unusual rustling noise coming from the entrance to the Forbidden Forest. For once, Draco was hoping to see Hagrid. But out from the thick growth of trees over a rugged path emerged a man with a gaunt, aged face, though he was much too young to come across with that appearance. His hair seemed to have grayed a lot more since the last time Draco had seen Professor Lupin. Lupin was smiling pleasantly, completely at ease, and walked directly towards them. Draco slipped his hand inside his robe pocket and tried to stand taller, but the exertion of energy he'd spent on keeping his ankle stable was starting to take its toll on him. His brow was sweating slightly, but he just gripped the wand in his pocket more firmly. Weasley wasn't at all afraid of the werewolf. In fact, she looked positively thrilled. 

"Lupin!" She cried in a warm, welcoming voice as soon as he was near. Their former teacher grinned widely and accepted a joyful hug from the red-haired girl. Something flared up inside Draco when he saw her do that. She was hugging him? Why? He was merely an old professor, found out as nothing but a dangerous creature! That was nothing special. Frightening, possibly, but not positive in any way, shape, or form. Lupin pulled back from Weasley and looked over to Draco, holding out his hand in order to shake. It was a tentative move; a hope that some kind of change had taken place. Should he trust this man? He was capable of turning into a fearsome beast and inflicting his own fate if not death on other innocent victims. Then again, what did it matter? He was already risking his life to help his arch enemy, why not go against the rest of the instincts he was raised to possess? Draco took Lupin's hand and shook it firmly, looking boldly into the man's slightly sunken yet bright amberoid eyes.

"You're the one we're supposed to meet, then?" He asked, trying to feel completely calm about the whole situation.

"Yes, at least, I'm not aware of anyone else meeting you!" 

Ginny laughed at his joke.

"All we need now is a little help from Crookshanks…who is right on time, as usual," he declared, checking his watch and staring past the two of them. 

"Who?" Draco asked, confused.

"Hermione's cat," Weasley mumbled coldly at him. An orange, bottle-brush tailed cat, giant at that, strutted up to the former teacher and meowed loudly. It had a very ugly, squashed face. Draco noted to himself the striking intelligence of this creature as it proceeded to trot defiantly over towards the tree and had no trouble whatsoever avoiding its branches. Crookshanks stepped nimbly onto one of the twisted old roots, stood on its hind legs as though swatting an elusive butterfly, and its paw landed on a large knot in the trunk. Immediately the tree froze as stiffly as a statue. Draco gaped. Even Granger's cat had to be the best and smartest, Draco deliberated in frustration. 

"Follow me," said Lupin simply, as though he regularly ventured through limbs of killer trees with a genius cougar-like creature to guide him. There was before them a hole in the ground that marked a gateway from the grounds of Hogwarts to its strange and fantastical underbelly, lying deep beneath the soil, where its soul lived, hibernating. Perhaps it was waiting for the right time to arise and assert its rights against the wizards that occupied its ancient chambers. Draco had never noticed this tunnel among the roots before. He allowed Weasley to go ahead of him and then followed hesitantly…descending into its darkness. They walked along the tunnel for fifteen minutes at least without being able to see a thing. Draco could hear Weasley in front of him; she was walking slower and slower, breathing heavily and trying too hard to keep her balance. He assumed she must be a bit claustrophobic. He could understand her fear, though. There was a disturbing nature to small, dark places, with no room to escape or hide, no room to maneuver or breathe. Not only that, he imagined, but the spirit of Hogwarts was present in the tunnel, stretching out its long arm to gain as much territory as it could. It was angry that they were down there, he pictured. It was so easy to envisage, though. The castle and its many enchantments, traditions, and functions had never been challenged, as if someone was too afraid to deny its power. He could see the bitter temper of the castle at hearing in its extra sensitive sense of ear that three strangers weaved along, careless, below its surface. With a slight sweep of dirt they would be dead, punished for going against the wishes of a watchful being.  They continued for perhaps ten more minutes when Draco abruptly heard Weasley whimper and drop to the dirt floor. 

"Lumos!" Draco chanted hastily, taking his wand out. Lupin turned round and lit his wand too. He kneeled down to examine Weasley, but Draco could see her from where he was standing. She appeared to have merely passed out, so he "nox!"ed the light and then pointed his wand at her chest. "Ennervate," he muttered quietly. She awoke with a brief start to see herself reflected in Draco's wintry eyes. He was plunged once again into the waters of the past he had no desire to face.

He was dressed in black, sitting in the huge, grand parlor of Malfoy Manor. It wasn't necessarily unusual for him to wear all black, but today was different. Today his colors represented something. He sat solitary, occupying a tall, burgundy velvet-upholstered chair with noble, wooden cobra arms. Draco looked up and across the room to see a simple black coffin. It was lying open for all to see its contents. No one in the room but he was crying. They all leered down at his dead mother with disapproving frowns. Lucius had an affected, tragic expression adorning his handsome face. Draco got to his feet and trudged slowly across the room until the corpse of his mother Narcissa came into view. She looked as snobby as she had ever been, but he missed her anyway.

 A tear left his eye and he wiped it away, pretending he had dust in his eye. He missed her because she had a soft spot for him, a nice facet that hardly anyone saw but himself, her only son, and he would never see that again. He felt a terrible void; a strange, burning pressure in his chest that grew exponentially as he stared at her unnaturally pallid complexion. It was all he could do not to throw his arms around her and sob in fervor until she came back to comfort him. She was the only person who ever truly loved him for him. He restrained himself, though. It would not be appropriate to throw one's arms around a dead person's neck. When he turned around to return to his seat he saw his father flashing him a proud smirk, which quickly turned into a solemn glare. What could his father be proud of that he wouldn't want Draco to know about?

 The others, too, were giving him strange looks: spiteful, confused, and some, especially his cousin Bellatrix, gave him ecstatic grins, a secret happiness in their faces. What role of importance did he possibly serve in all of this?  

There was Weasley again, a welcome sight. With an enraged growl Draco turned away from her face which was etched with pity and mournfulness at the memory she'd just witnessed. 

"Dumbledore warned me this might happen," said Lupin, shaking his head in perplexity.  "Do you want to talk about it?" He sounded genuinely concerned.

"No!" They both answered rather loudly, voices echoing together, complementing each other through the long tunnel. Weasley realized how she must have sounded and quickly covered for herself. 

"I mean, maybe now wouldn't be the best time for this. I'm sorry, I just lose my confidence…and, consciousness, obviously, when I'm in small places; just a strange idiosyncrasy of mine. I can go on now, really. Is it much farther?"

"No, not at all. Five more minutes and we'll be there." Lupin paused as he surveyed her face. She was biting her lip, something she usually resorted to when nervous or secretive, Draco had noticed. Lupin must have noticed something to this extent, because he seemed to be about to say something when he thought better of it. "Up you get," he said, helping her to her feet. He continued on with the slightest shake of his head, and Weasley followed, giving the slightest glance over her shoulder. Draco went after her, thinking over the much greater effect this strange vision of his past had on him than the ones before it. It was a strange sensation that remained in his stomach after the fact that kept him as if he was wading along in some unresolved, muddy issue. It was a confusing, entangling feeling that he severely disliked. 

The tunnel ended abruptly and they came up, through the floor of an old house, boards were nailed on every window and door, furniture was strewn in ripped pieces across the rooms. A thick smell of dust and soil invaded Draco's nostrils and the floor he stood on creaked constantly, screaming at him for daring to set foot in a residence to which he wasn't invited. The place was all-around creepy.

"Oh!" Weasley breathed in excitement. "Is this the Shrieking Shack?" Realization grasped her flushed face. Lupin nodded simply.

"Ron and Hermione both told me all about this, when they were in their third year and they found out about Scabbers and that he was really Peter Pettigrew and that he was the one who betrayed Harry's mum and dad, it wasn't rea…it wasn't…S-Sirius," she finished reluctantly.

"It's alright; I think Sirius would want us to talk about him. It would just disappoint him to think we were pretending he didn't exist. Staying silent would not be honorable." Although a small smile appeared on Lupin's gaunt face, it wasn't difficult to discern his sadness, the look of a brother long abandoned. He went on and on, telling more about his departed friend's wishes as he led them down a staircase into the basement and lit the torches in a stone room which looked more like one of Snape's larger closets than like the lower level of a house. 

Draco could recall the mad glee in his father's usually drawling voice when he described exactly how Black was hit by Bella's curse and fell behind the mysterious black veil. He almost felt sorry for the man's unfortunate life. He was blamed for a crime he didn't commit, spent how many years with the Dementors, just to get out, start helping Dumbledore, and immediately get killed.  But with a violent push, he banned that mercy from his mind: it was treasonous to think that way. Not allowing itself to go so easily, the stab of pity returned, and Draco unwittingly allowed himself to be entertained. He didn't say anything of it, though. Words spoken were like a powerful weapon, easy to use for his own devices, and just as easy to turn back against him again. Better off with no weapon at all, he thought, biting his tongue.

With the chamber lit up, there was one odd thing about it; perhaps not odd, but highly noticeable besides the neat bookcases and table. There was a pile of random objects in the corner, stacked carefully so as not to break them. Clay pots, swords, musical instruments, and quills that appeared to serve no purpose sat as if waiting for them to arrive. Lupin walked over to the pile and picked out a decorative urn.

"These do have inscriptions on them, though their forms make the writing invisible. Ginny, your job is to transfigure these into a readable…erm, format? Your job, Draco, is to translate our findings and bring the information to my office. It's on the second floor, second door on the right. You can just slip them under the door, since I'm not here most of the time." He smiled, gave Weasley the urn and walked three steps away when Draco interfered.

"What exactly are these documents supposed to be?"

"Well, I suppose they could be a number of things, data mostly: lists, names, letters, records, plans."

"But how will we know when-" Weasley started, but Lupin already had an answer for her.

"Oh, you'll know it when you see it." With this said; Lupin turned on his heel and hurried from the room with a terse but pleasant good-bye, his eyes on the one window in the chamber. His steps echoed on the stone staircase as he departed. Draco swallowed, attempting to even out the stubborn lump in his throat at this strange situation and at realizing his pain once again. It seemed to have dulled by now, but there was still a rough strain he felt when he used the muscles in his stomach. He ignored it. As Weasley began to examine one of the ceramic vessels, Draco cast his eyes across the room, upon a tall, handsome bookcase which was placed up against one wall. It was completely full, overflowing with books of varied types of ancient and more modern runes in use or of possibility. Now, would the death eaters be basic, sophisticated, or difficult to handle? Obviously the last choice, thought Draco, drawing three books, of the most complex characters known, from their places on the dark ebony shelves. 

Weasley analyzed the colorful urn in slight bewilderment and whipped out a long, thin, reddish-wooded wand. She tested several spells on the apparently ancient vessel. When she tried a scroll, the thick paper was blank; the same happened with notepads and stone tablets. She was beginning to get frustrated and Draco to get bored, watching her unsuccessful attempts and checking his watch seemingly every two seconds. He sighed impatiently, staring bluntly at her. 

"What do you suggest, then, Malfoy?" Weasley asked rather vindictively.

"Another source of reading material. Maybe…a book?" Draco responded with an equally malicious tone, clenching his teeth slightly and holding up one of the books in his pale hand. No one ever spoke back to him.

"Yes, let's try that," she said as if cursing under her breath, smiling at him poisonously. 

"Enlivro!" she cast angrily at the pot. In a full burst of thick green smoke the urn was replaced by a heavy old book, at least four inches thick and a foot long. She opened it reluctantly to see rows upon rows of tiny printed symbols filling every page. They stared up at her with a crude, threatening cryptic expression. Weasley seemed to have become entranced by them. She stared at the book with an absent longing in her eyes. They seemed hollow, empty. That disturbed Draco more than the lines of signs he was going to have to decipher. She grinned lifelessly and placed a hand on the first page with a noble and ruling gesture, a domineering glint in her movements. Draco was truly terrified now by her behavior. He'd never seen Weasley act like this.

"W-Weasley?" he stammered, unsuccessfully trying to sound derisive. He looked at her cautiously. She didn't reply, either, but an evil feeling was emanating from her smile, her eyes, her hand, and was starting to infect him. He backed away, but it struck swiftly. He felt the Power first in his arm and it spread quickly, suddenly, arbitrarily, he felt like a worthless piece of filth with nothing in the favor of his life. Why was he even here? If his father had been there he couldn't have made Draco any more completely hopeless than this strange creation of Weasley's. The torches in the room flickered as if the Power had tried to snuff them out with its putrid breath. Draco's eyes were pulling at him, trying to roll back inside his head, but he realized he wouldn't, he couldn't allow them that. He reached over and put his hand on top of hers. 

"Weasley, please! Stop it!" He whispered it desperately, praying the Power wouldn't hear. It wasn't part of her, was it? She smiled with a horrible, frigid curve to her lips and raised her usually warm eyes from the text to his slate ones. Those weren't her eyes. The Power wasn't part of her. The orbs in her skull gleamed in an oily red, warning him they were watching him disobey. He clasped her fingers in his palm and wrenched her hand from the book with an effort created by the somehow magnetic pull of her hand to the pages. He had a hunch the book had something to do with this Power. Immediately she gasped as if she'd been drowning. The intake of air sounded like a resurrection to Draco, true life and passion flowing in her blood and bones once again. Her eyes turned their familiar brown hue and he realized that this vision-sharing would have to be controlled if they were going to be working together so closely.

"And we happened to hear you were making a deal with Dumbledore," said another burly looking guy, rather slowly. Draco couldn't help thinking it must have taken him five minutes to think of saying it. They stared into him expectantly. It reminded Draco of his father. He gave them a wilting, disbelieving look and acted casual. 

"Do you really think I would do such a thing? Of course I wouldn't," he put in quickly, the unconvinced looks on their faces frightening him. "I'm loyal to the Dark Lord for life!"

"We don' believe you," said the leader, shoving a deriding finger into Draco's chest. He stood his ground. "We saw you talkin' with that Weasley freak." He said this with the utmost contempt.

"She isn't a freak," Draco said softly. But as soon as the words had left his lips, he knew it had been a fatal mistake. The air was suddenly filled with atrocious names they were swearing at him. With a wham! all the breath had been knocked out of him; an absence that shocked more than harmed his fragile state. He staggered and fell back against the wall; a particular one of the stones grinding its jagged edge into his spine. Someone gave him a blow to the face. Draco could feel the thick flow of blood coming from his nose in an abundant stream; he could taste the warmth and iron of it in his mouth. They just wouldn't stop, though. With a dim thought, Draco wondered why he was being punished so brutally for so small a mistake! He could feel the soles of their shoes in his side and he knew he was no longer leaning against the wall. The scent of sweet grass filled his nostrils with the slight bitterness of the chlorophyll. It tickled his neck, cushioning some of the blows as if Hogwarts was taking his side, protecting him from the pain that coursed through his body, but more, from the anger that was taking over. They had no right to do this! But they did, no matter, couldn't hear him pleading through his clenched teeth. And then everything fell into darkness, and Draco knew that in the thick blackness it wouldn't hurt so badly anymore.

They were looking at one another again. Weasley couldn't restrain the tears streaming down her face and with a softly uttered cry, took her hand away from his, ran across the room, and hurled herself down in a corner. She cradled her head on her knees in a nervous fit of sobbing. He couldn't help it. Whatever was left of Draco's conscience was forcing him to also cross the room and sit down next to her with an awkwardness he didn't usually display. He cleared his throat, anxiety having already placed his heart there. 

"Did you- did you do that to me?" she asked almost incomprehensibly.

"Did I do what to you?" he defended himself, somewhat angered that she didn't care a whit for placing that still smoldering memory in front of him again.

"That hasn't happened since my first year here, when-w-when I wrote to _him_ in my diary. He hasn't taken me like that for five years," she struggled to tell him.

"I don't understand. I didn't do anything, but I saw you change. Your eyes, they turned red…"

Weasley turned to him with a determined look and began telling him what happened the first year she attended Hogwarts. Draco's heart was filled with an ill sort of pity for her. With as much as he'd been through, he had to admit, being possessed by the Dark Lord was the worst experience he'd ever heard of before. When she'd finished telling him, she wiped her face on her sleeve and looked back to Draco again. 

"So you didn't do that? Any of it?" she asked him once again, almost hopefully.

"No," he responded, shaking his head. Weasley caught sight of his bruise in the light of a torch and bit her lip.

"You were defending me," she said, a lack of tone in her normally overflowing voice. "Why?"

"Why?" he repeated to himself. Yes, that was a challenging question. What would he tell her while he was searching for the real answer?

"The truth," he told her.

"What do you mean?"

"I was just telling them the truth. If that meant I was defending you, so be it."

She was about to touch his face again, but retracted her hand, remembering his stern warning. This time, however, he took her wrist not to push it away, but to place it against his face, over the painful blue bruise on his pale cheek. Draco knew that if he was going to give up his old life, it would have to be gotten rid of completely. The motives he'd held for her at the beginning of the year had vanished completely in the wake of these strange, entwining coincidences, memories he'd been forced to see and feel again, the offer Dumbledore had made to him, and the effect Weasley had on his ambitions. He had let go of the rich-poor house boundary with that voluntary contact. Another shackle clanking to the floor and oh so many more to be gotten rid of. She put her head down against his neck in grief and exhaustion and though it taxed his self-control, he allowed her to do so and even put a comforting arm around her back.

"You're changing me," he whispered.

~_Evyfleur_


	4. Hospital Wing Powerplays

Draco woke the next morning to excruciating pain in his head. The light streaming in through his window only made it feel worse. He glanced witheringly at his watch on the bedside table, which read a bleak seven thirty. That gave him half an hour to gain his bearings before class started. To aid him in recovering from the pounding migraine, Draco grabbed his wand and cast a charm on his eyes to make the light seem dimmer to him. As he pulled on his robes, he thought about what had happened the night before. Weasley had told him exactly what they had to do and he, frankly, had agreed completely. Today they would go to see Dumbledore and explain to him in minute detail what happened when Weasley touched the book: the possession, the vision, and that it needed to stop unless Dumbledore's initial motive had been to cause their insanity. It made him feel worse just thinking about a meeting with the cheery Headmaster. Draco had no necessity to feel any more nervous than he did already, working for the...wrong side.

Goose sauntered into the room, fearless in the middle of a clique of ego-driven Slytherins who thought he was a bug put into the house by Dumbledore to rip its dignity to shreds. They glared at him nastily and he shot a chipper grin back at them, along with a genuine "good morning," of course, a phrase never used before by proper Slytherins. Draco finished getting dressed and steered his first year friend back out of the room and up the stone steps into the common room. It was still rather difficult to walk, but Draco could feel his ankle was healing. It felt slightly better than his ribcage or his sinus cavities, anyway.

"Morning, Draco, want to get some breakfast? OJ and toast?" he said, not one bit phased by Draco's huge bruise and somber expression.

"I suppose that would be in order," Draco agreed, seeing the several people in the common room glaring at him and readying their wands to attack if he made any abrupt movements. That was the only thing they reacted to, really. If Draco stood completely still, they might stop sensing him and go back to talking. Leaving with heads held high (rather hastily), they hurried off towards the Great Hall.

The toast tasted delicious to Draco as he munched on five pieces at once while sitting at the empty end of the silver and green-adorned table. Goose was explaining how unfair Snape was and that, as a teacher, he should take more pains to establish a trust among the student body, otherwise...as he said, they wouldn't care about learning potions-making skills.

"It's a very important part of our magical education. And the fact that he's the creepiest and meanest guy to ever walk the earth doesn't help his reputation. He's completely biased against all the houses except Slytherin, which is not a problem for me, obviously, but I still think students should be treated equally and with respect! No wonder he's never gotten the DADA position," Goose said passionately, grinding his hash browns into a homogeneous pulp, adding ketchup, and heaping a forkful into his mouth, followed by a bite of pancake sopping with syrup. Draco took a sip of his pumpkin juice, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and answered him thoughtfully.

"He's been through a lot, Professor Snape. He's still a good teacher, though. He knows what he's doing better than any and all the rest of the teachers here. I would trust him with my life, even if he didn't like me."

"I'm sure there are some who would disagree with you. In fact, I know a few personally," said a voice to his back.

"Ginny, good morning!" Goose sang cheerfully. Draco turned round to see her glaring at him. He glared back with an equal intensity. This was when they would secure a meeting time.

"You'd better be careful, or you won't live to see lunch," she said with steel in her voice. They gave hateful glares to one another for another long moment.

"Fine," Draco drawled at her. "I'll heed your warning for now. You could sic your brother on me. But you'll regret you said that to me, Weasley."

She raised an eyebrow at him, turned on her heel, and walked away with a haughty expression etched into her features. Draco smirked, thinking Granger must have taught her how to do that. He turned back to his toast as if nothing happened and continued to eat, glad that the situation would be taken care of today.

"What was that? How did we get from some people disliking Snape to your death preceding lunch?" Goose asked him confusedly.

"Nothing. We were arranging a meeting time for today in the code of our usual conversations. Goose, you need to learn some rules about purebloods. One of those rules is that Malfoys and Weasleys don't have to start a conversation before bestowing death threats upon one another. It's just in our respective natures." Draco hoped Goose wouldn't press the subject too far.

"Why are you meeting at much? Is she your hot date, Romeo and Juliet style?" He winked at Draco with a good-natured grin.

"First of all, you're way too young to be thinking like that, second, I don't know what Romeo and Juliet means, and third...no. We're going to see Dumbledore about some problems," Draco muttered miserably.

"Oh. This is about those weird trances you go into when you're around her, isn't it?"

"Partly," Draco admitted resignedly.

*~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~*~~~~~~*~~~~~~~*

Morning classes passed relatively well, including another humorous mishap with Neville and his cauldron and Potter getting forty points taken away from Gryffindor for reacting to Draco's mere comment that it was good they wouldn't have to be chasing after Sirius Black anymore, as he was dead. It only took a small dose of one of Snape's simpler potions to restore Draco's hair to its usual length and stop it from attacking him in manner of boa constrictor. But overall, the disgusted look on the dream team's faces and the slight smile he got from the Slytherins was well worth the trouble, leaving a more confident feeling in him for his meeting with Dumbledore. He was even happier to overhear that the first Hogsmeade weekend would begin that Friday. When he left double potions, he steered straight toward the formerly forbidden charms corridor, where Weasley informed him earlier to meet her. She was leaning casually against the wall, reading a book. Or was she? No, she was drawing once again, her fair face scrunched in concentration with every pencil stroke she made.

He stopped in front of her and then leaned against the wall beside her mockingly. She pretended not to notice him.

"What are you drawing?" he asked quietly.

"Nothing of consequence to you," she said simply, closing her book inside the other and placing it inside her bag, as if she had waited for his cue to do so. Draco furrowed his brow in annoyance, she was such a self-righteous- no, he forced himself, just let it go.

Around the corner came two figures, bickering loudly. They stopped abruptly when the sight of Weasley and Draco registered in their vision. Taking their wands from their robe pockets, the pair stampeded down the corridor towards them, looking about as lethal as insulted hippogriffs.

"Malfoy! Get away from my sister you git!" Her older brother yelled, skidding to a halt and eyeing Draco suspiciously. He stayed where he was, smirking slightly, and gave Weasley a look that clearly told her Draco had done something earlier that probably wasn't the wisest.

"What did you do?" she whispered.

He only smirked more widely at her.

"Ginny? Are you okay? Come here, Ron will make sure Malfoy doesn't hurt you or anything," Hermione fussed, sounding like a neurotic mother, obsessed with the sheltering of her children.

"Hermione, I'm fine! Honestly!" she exclaimed, walking away from Draco but having to push Granger away from her gently. Draco couldn't stand how they were treating her. It was so condescending. She was if anything, superior to them, to the groveling followers of Potter. How could she allow it? He wouldn't.

"Don't you ever let your sister stand up for herself, Weasel?" he asked silkily, approaching the taller boy boldly. "Or do you always make foolish assumptions and insist on protecting her as if she's only a two-year old? Does that thrill you, Weasel? Do you get an ego boost from being able to save your poor, sweet, innocent sister from the jaws of evil?" Draco's voice overflowed with his cynical mentality, trying to articulate the bitter rage he felt towards them. "She's a lot less naïve than you make her out to be. Let her act on her own! Can't you find anything else to do in your spare time? Hook up with Granger or something," he suggested flamingly, gesturing at her with a dismissive hand.

Ron's ears were swiftly turning as red as his hair. Draco knew from past experiences that this was not a good sign. They were now definitely a shade darker than his hair. He had never seen the Weasel's ears that color. Draco swallowed in sudden fear. Perhaps that wasn't the best thing to say to someone with his wand out, less than a foot from his chest.

"Excuse my remarks, they got away from me a bit at the end there-"

But the older Weasley had not seemed to hear this or the reproaches coming from his sister and he had also seemed to have forgotten his wand. Instead he sent a swift blow to Draco's gut. Immediately, he knew something was wrong. He was on his knees, coughing with an uncontrollable intensity. The breath leaving his lungs wouldn't return to him and his eyesight was wavering, blurry. All he could see was three blurbs in front of him, fighting with each other to get towards him, or to get away from him. He couldn't tell which. Then he lost consciousness and fell back to the hard floor with a whomp! which ensured another migraine later that day.

*~~~~~~*~~~~~~*~~~~~~*~~~~~~*

"Thank the pixies, he's coming around," Draco heard Madam Pomfrey mutter, fussing about everything down to the state of his pillow, as usual. He opened and closed his eyes several times, trying to piece everything together. He could feel and move his head, but he felt like his torso had been completely cut off, twisted about, and stuck back on again in a rough fashion. Draco groaned drowsily and turned his head to see Weasley, Weasley, and Granger all wearing the same expression of surprise, though the Weasel seemed to be holding back a triumphant grin.

"Mr. Malfoy, I hope you don't mind, I need to see the areas where you were injured. Peeves can be quite dangerous when he wants to be. It's a lucky thing these three were here to help you!"

Draco paused in his thoughts, perplexed at what she had just told him. Peeves hadn't been the attacker, it was...oh. Might as well play along so as not to get into a game of complicated finger-pointing. With a small smile at Ron just to scare him, he hesitated in speaking...they all leaned forward with incisive eyes...and he affirmed what she said, laughing to himself at the small moments of pleasure he could snatch here and there. He pulled off his black robe and unbuttoned his neatly pressed, white shirt with considerable difficulty (although, of course, he didn't show it). All four others in the room gasped at the sight. And as Draco looked at himself, he realized they were right in doing so.

His whole stomach and sides (usually pale and white) were a ghastly yellowish purple, with a quickly developing patch of blue in the dead center where Weasley had got him. Speaking of whom, he no longer appeared remotely triumphant or the least bit satisfied. His face had taken on an ashen hue and he was frowning in shock. Weasley flushed and clasped her hands in front of her, staring not just at the bruise but looking up at him in question. Granger merely stared at him disbelievingly.

"What did Peeves hit you with, Mr. Malfoy?" demanded Madam Pomfrey breathlessly, poking at his bruises gingerly.

"Er...it was a bookcase. Slammed the top corner right into me, it was not a nice sensation. I happen to be very delicate physically, as well, which is not helpful," he lied with an improvisational elegance.

The three at his bedside let out a sigh of relief. Madam Pomfrey, however, seemed concerned by Draco's fragile stature.

"Why, that's terrible! You don't have hemophilia, do you?"

"No, I don't," he said in mild exasperation, having no idea what it was, though it sounded rather threatening.

"Hema-what?" Weasley the taller broke in curiously, though Draco knew he was just too scared to think he might have actually, seriously harmed anyone. Granger answered him in her all-knowing whisper.

Pomfrey made a potion to heal bruises more quickly and forced Draco to drink every last drop of it. The taste was bitter and thick; Draco couldn't stop drinking glasses of water for the next five minutes, trying to get the horrid sense of it from his mouth.

"Alright, Mr. Malfoy," she began, launching into a speech laden with important information that Draco would have to know, "I would like you to stay here overnight so that I can monitor the effects of the potion...meanwhile, I think a little chat about Peeves is in order. I'll go see Dumbledore and bring him down here to see you, Mr. Malfoy, and you can give him a full account of what happened. Finally! We may be able to get rid of that atrocious, pesky Poltergeist." And with her speech concluded, Pomfrey swept briskly from the room and down the corridor. Granger sank into her chair, as did the two red-haired siblings beside her.

"I couldn't have done that, Malfoy. I mean, punching you once is what you deserved for how you've been today, and I do not feel guilty about that, but this...are...what the bloody hell happened to you?"

Draco turned to his Weasley for a moment, as if asking her what he should do. She nodded affirmatively. Draco took a breath.

"Well, if you hadn't assumed that I was trying to hurt her, perhaps I could have explained what was going on. I could have. I wouldn't have, of course, but that isn't the point in question," he paused to enjoy the moment of frustration apparent on all three faces. "It's good that Dumbledore is coming," he went on, forcing them to listen to his unfocused rambling, "because I must confess that I am quite annoyed at him, and-"

Weasley had reached the end of, in Draco's opinion, his very short patience span (and attention span at that).

"Why shouldn't I have assumed you were going to hurt her? I ran into you pinning her against the wall at the beginning of the year! What am I supposed to think, Malfoy?" He had shoved his finger in front of Draco's face and was pointing accusingly at him, fuming in a bright red and looking, as usual, to Granger for justification in his argument.

"I wasn't hurting her then, either, Weasley. You just have a very shallow opinion of me."

"Yeah, I wonder why. You- you mangy bas-"

"Ron!" Granger chided him.

"Git," he finished, not sounding a bit satisfied. "Maybe I don't care if you've got"

"Ask her!" Malfoy shouted at the top of his voice, taking a fistful of the Weasel's robes in his hand and pointing at his sister with the other. Her brother loosed himself from Draco's grasp with a tight-lipped expression and glare reserved only for Malfoys and turned to Weasley.

"Well?" he asked her, rather violently. She appeared to be fighting back a horrified expression.

"He's right," she let out. "Malfoy never tried to hurt me, Ron. The reason he's all beat up is b- is because some Slytherins," (she said this word with obvious disdain) "have taken a disliking towards him. He was defending me. That's also why he has a bruise on his face, and, if you didn't happen to notice before, a twisted ankle." She looked at him as if this was a big step she was taking towards confronting her brother. Draco felt a surge of pride for her for, fortunately, only a brief moment.

"How did you know about my ankle?" Draco realized and said at the same time, surprised.

"I-I saw you limping towards the willow last night," she told him reluctantly, biting her lip and pushing a stray lock of vibrant hair behind her ear. Draco shook his head sullenly and pulled the covers up past his chest to cover the evidence of his weakness. It was just an instinct.

"Why didn't you just defend yourself?" the Weasel posed incredulously, smiling a bit at Draco's plight. He raised a blonde brow and fixed his piercing gray eyes on Weasley's amused blue ones.

"Because I choose my battles, unlike you," he responded acidly. It took Granger a few minutes to calm her boyfr- erm, best friend down again, though she seemed rather perturbed at his comment herself.

"Just tell us what's going on," she asked them cautiously. Weasley looked at Draco now for confirmation, but he was unsure, so he led his gaze upon his glass of water by the bedside instead. So Weasley decided to explain for them, a determination present in her at certain moments, only when it had to be there. The story took a long time to tell and by the time she had concluded, on an unsteady note, the company was staring into the floor, all feeling too awkward to speak.

"So we decided to meet with Dumbledore and see if there is any way to stop this...except...except this happened to come up quite unexpectedly."

"I'm sorry I didn't try to solve the problem immediately," an elderly voice added from the doorway.

It was their headmaster, a very solemn expression worn into his face, ready to confront the festering situation.

"How long have you been listening?" Draco tried to ask without sounding guilty.

"Long enough, I believe, Mr. Malfoy. Now, may I see those bruises of which Madam Pomfrey was informing me?"

He pushed the blankets down slowly, trying to will the bruises away, but the vast spots of blue and purple blared up at Dumbledore. He furrowed his snowy brow and rubbed his chin, looking at Draco with concern.

"Poppy will have to give you a much stronger dose of potion to heal those, I'm afraid, since they were not inflicted by a bookcase," he remarked pointedly, a bit of a twinkle in his eye. The others blushed furiously and became quite interested in their shoes, though Draco kept staring up at the old man.

"Professor, I didn't make that up," Granger put in, looking quite apprehensive of having her prefectship removed.

"Worry not, Hermione. I know that. But you did aid in the story, didn't you?"

Granger fell silent.

"I did," Draco confessed.

"And I admire your tact and almost-successful attempt to keep the story simple, but you need stronger medicine. Wizard hands make deep impressions on wizard skin. They are much more damaging than a mere poltergeist with a piece of furniture, Mr. Malfoy."

"Fantastic. Stronger bruises. I mean, better potion to heal them. But what about You Know Who?" Draco didn't care a whit about his physical well-being. He wanted the torture of his mind to cease and they were wasting time. He was stumbling over his words trying to attain his goal in bringing the conversation around to the right topic.

"Patience," chuckled Dumbledore, sitting down on the opposite side of the Hospital bed, "is a virtue, Mr. Malfoy. And his true name is Voldemort, not You Know Who. Use the proper name."

Draco cringed shudderingly at this, as did the two Weasleys. Granger sighed impatiently. Dumbledore, as if reacting to this, turned from Draco towards the others.

"Ronald- Hermione- would you please allow us to speak privately? I trust you both completely and am quite confident that you will extend every possible support to Mr. Malfoy and to Ginny, but I must talk to them about some confidential information."

Granger and Weasley nodded and said goodbye to the remaining red-head, and left, wearing disgruntled expressions at not being allowed to stay. Draco and Weasley turned to Dumbledore with fright. Would they be punished for this brawl? What was so confidential?

"A breakthrough of this magnitude in one evening is...extraordinary. None of the teachers could transform any of the documents properly into a readable material. Not even Professor McGonagall. I must say you are very talented, Ginny. But we need you both to go back there again. The whereabouts of Voldemort may be found in one of those coded documents, and that would be invaluable to the Order's goal."

"But Professor! I was possessed again! How am I supposed to ignore that, when it could happen at any time?" Weasley sounded desperate and Draco could understand why; if he was claustrophobic and hated a house because he had been possessed inside of it, he would make the same argument...in a more violent way.

"Easily. Whenever you touch one of the objects, think of someone you love. Think of your parents, your friends. Voldemort can't break through that barrier. And it is the objects which open you up to him. It isn't the house. They are connected with him just as the diary was, and so, logically, when you put yourself on the other end of the line, it becomes nothing of a task for him to possess you. This system will disgust him and hold him back at the same time. You may have to practice willingly calling people to mind; the defense is sometimes challenging to control by oneself. Just think of it as an invisible Patronus. Is that suitable?"

She looked highly relieved, as if this made perfect sense to her, though it sounded like a psychologically-satisfying answer only, to Draco. "Yes," she answered Dumbledore, smiling at him as if he was a wise grandfather taking time to try and explain some valuable advice for learning how to fly a broom to his dearest granddaughter.

"And as for that annoying little occurrence about once a day when Weasley just happens to make me relive every horrible memory I have while she can't help but look on too? What shall we do to resolve that?" Draco asked testily.

"When does it usually take place?" Dumbledore questioned, readjusting his glasses analytically.

"Well, it's totally unexpected. Usually whenever I see her for the first time in a day...not always, though."

"It never happens when we're expecting to look at one another. I've noticed that it is taking place when we...catch each other's eyes unintentionally," Weasley added to his statement. Evidently she had been thinking on this more observantly than Draco had.

"Hmm," Dumbledore murmured gravely.

"What?" They both said in worry, looking at him in dark anticipation.

"I can only see one solution to that problem. It will be very difficult. Very difficult indeed, for both of you."

"What is it?" Draco asked boldly. He could do anything as long as it stopped the visions from coming to him. No matter if it was a spell or a complex potion or charm; whatever needed to be done could be achieved in a simpler way than being tormented by memories constantly.

"You must...get to know each other. Become colleagues at least, if not friends. You must learn to tolerate, anticipate, and have forbearance with each other's actions without being violent or drawing back without contact. Contact is the only this can be stopped. Communication and alliance and contact. No surprise glances, no unexpected approaches. You must know each other. Do you understand what I'm saying?" Dumbledore smiled for just a moment. They nodded vaguely at him.

But suddenly Draco's brazen confidence had faltered. Spend time with Weasley? That was certainly worse than any sort of magic. Their families were set against each other in instinct, how could they possibly learn to get along? Why of all people did _they_ have to learn how to? It would be incredibly taxing to his self-control, Draco knew that. But if it was necessary, and it did seem logical, then he would try. In addition, if they could break the Malfoy-Weasley boundary, that would protect them both from any future problems similar to Draco's. And as long as Weasley was going to be alright, Draco supposed it was worth...as long as _he_ would be alright, it was worth it. He stared at Weasley, who also seemed to be scrutinizing the matter, though they had both already answered his question. It looked vital to her...and to Dumbledore. To Draco, what would happen in life would happen, but why not help out the ones who would keep their loyalty to one another, and optimistically? It was better then laying himself bare until danger came around, with every man for himself. Yes, Draco concluded, I may be a fatalist, but at least I'm choosing the "good" people. Am I? As if on cue to his thought, Weasley looked up and affirmed her acceptance of the headmaster's idea.

"You have a deal, Professor," Draco said, holding his hand out.

"Don't shake my hand, Mr. Malfoy. It is she with whom you are going to become more familiar."

He didn't know whether to scowl or grimace, but smiled politely instead, maintaining his temperament. Somehow it made him look as though he was about to be ill. Weasley put her hand out with some trepidation and shook his. It was a firm handshake, but short. Neither one knew how long to touch the other's hand.

"Now that's settled, I must go and take care of some pressing matters concerning the anxious situation of Minister Fudge. He's been awaiting me all morning. Please excuse me." At that, Dumbledore exited the room, leaving Draco and Weasley feeling terribly awkward.

"So, if I'm destined to know you better than I do now, what should I call you? Weasley is much too general. Your brother in his tremendously thick-skinned mentality would probably think I was addressing him. But on the other hand, you know I can't call you...Ginny. It's such a filthy pet name; it wouldn't be at all acceptable."

Weasley rolled her eyes in exasperation, the awkwardness broken.

"What's your full first name?"

"I don't like it," she said, shifting in her chair.

"I don't care if you don't like it, I would like to know what it is."

"Virginia."

"Virginia. Yes, I think that can make do. It sounds noble enough," Draco declared, as if it was of everlasting importance.

"Well, don't say it that way."

"Say it what way, Virginia?" He smirked at her.

"Oh, you are so aggravating! Have I told you that?" she said angrily, turning to face away from him.

"Plenty have, but it sounds so much better coming from you, Virginia," Draco teased mercilessly.

"Stop it! You're worse than my pompous brothers."

"Hey! Don't insult me!" Weasley said, having just reentered the room accompanied by Granger. He looked eagerly at both of them and rubbed his hands together. "So. You get to find out where You Know Who is first, eh? Lucky gits."

"How do you know-"

"Extendable ears," Virginia answered, cutting off Draco's question.

"A magnificent development that's been selling in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes for about two years now. They're all the rage with students trying to listen in on test planning" (Hermione shot him a reproachful glare) "or, in our case, secret discussions between the most powerful wizard alive and his two trustees," Weasley said in an announcing voice, handing Draco a piece of flesh-colored string to examine.

"Oh, so that's why Dumbledore was whispering to us about punishing the two of you. I didn't understand until just now. Thought he was going a bit insane on us," he said, handing it back. Weasley flushed as Granger paled. Virginia suppressed a smile.


End file.
